Bookends
by Doreen Tracy
Summary: An alternate interpretation of the origins of Sam and Al's relationship and the beginnings of Project Quantum Leap. This story was written just after the second season of Quantum Leap so anything shown after that is not included in this story.
1. Chapter 1

The young intern walked up the steps of Bethesda Medical Center. The

air was crisp and fresh around him as he entered the hospital, anticipating

another twelve hours of hard work. As he checked in, he noted the date

and mentally counted the days until he could be out of this grind and onto

whatever his life ahead offered him. Medicine was only a small part of his

plans. Only nineteen years old and he was always at the top of his class in

school. He'd played piano at Carnegie Hall a few months before, and M.I.T.

was behind him, for now. His father, who had died recently, had wanted

him to have the medical degree. He'd always been so supportive of

anything his younger son did, especially after his brother's death in Viet

Nam. It seemed that part of his family's spirit had died with Tom, but now

wasn't the time to think about it. His work day was ahead of him.

Things were different working in a Navy hospital like Bethesda. Many

of the larger, more prestigious institutions in the country had requested

his presence for internship, but he chose the Naval institute, working as a

civilian. His intelligence disqualified him from military service, the

draft board deciding his mental abilities made him invaluable at home.

He wasn't going for only a medical degree, but taking extension courses

to mop up a degree or two in ancient languages, hoping for a doctorate

someday. A busy man, too busy for his mother's taste, she said. He still

managed a weekly letter home and called frequently.

Mom was on her way to Hawaii, after he'd closed the sale of the farm.

That had been so hard, letting that part of his life go. The farm had

represented the time before the achievement tests, before he was

'different'. Before his father and Tom had died. He still felt a pang,

remembering the auction only a month ago, seeing all the memories go

under the block and sold to neighbors and strangers. His mother's face,

seeing the accumulated belongings of nearly forty years disappear.

The assignment chart was up in the break room and he mentally

checked it, easily memorizing names and rooms, problems and treatment.

The room was filling with other interns and doctors, all on his shift, plus

the ones from the shift before his.

He took his seat at the long table as the other doctors gathered for

the daily briefing. He listened patiently to the status reports, comments

about newly received patients, and general hospital information. The coffee he

sipped during the meeting seemed to revive dead brain cells. Unlike his

contemporaries, he wasn't dating anyone, or out drinking. Books and

homework were his best company. it was fortunate that the most recent

grant paid for an apartment of his own. It would be a hindrance with a

roommate coming in and out, girls, drinking. He was responsible for the

well-being of his mother, and had no time for things like that. When he

was settled, his experiments successful, then it would be time for his own

family -a wife and some kids. That was part of his dream, too.

The meeting was breaking up, and Dr. Wolfe, head of interns, was

motioning him to his side. With an easy smile, he joined his favorite

teacher in this live action classroom.

"As you know," Dr. Wolfe said, as they left the room and headed down

the corridor. "We've had a few additions. I have rounds and there's

simply more than I can handle. We have a physical to conduct in Room

Two and I'd be entirely in your debt if you'd handle it."

"No problem, Doctor.'

"How many more months?"

"Eleven," the intern answered, trying to keep the joy from creeping into

his voice. Eleven more months until he could return to M.I.T. and finish

what he really wanted to do as his life's work. Physics. The medical

degree would come in handy if he actually managed to make a particular

dream come true. As he hurried to the waiting patient, his mind was on

numbers and theories. Soon.

As he pushed open the door to Room Two, he frowned at the smoke

and smell that greeted him. Cigars, and any form of tobacco was

prohibited on this floor. The man seated on the examining table was

puffing on a cigar and looked like he was enjoying it.

"I hope you realize that smoking isn't allowed." He picked up the

man's chart and glanced over it.

"Tough."

The word was full of belligerence and even challenge. Sighing, the

intern picked up the ready stethoscope and walked over to the table. The

man, cigar still wedged between gritted teeth, was far too underweight,

and his face was deathly pale. The words on his chart fell into place with

his condition. The man was a recently repatriated POW, named Albert

Calavicci.

"All right, all right!" Pulling the cigar from his mouth, Calavicci

tossed it perfectly into the empty metal waste can. "Carry on, Lieutenant."

"I'm no officer." Pressing the scope to the thin chest, he was reassured

that the man's heart was, indeed, still beating. "I'm a civilian," he said,

pocketing the scope. "Last year medical student."

"Christ, I've had so many interns check me over I want to puke." Al's

face settled into one dark look. "I guess I don't rate a real doctor."

"Not quite true," The intern smiled. "It says on your chart you're

going to work for NASA."

"Missed the Moon shots by one lousy year." There was no animosity in

his tone now, just a little regret. "I don't want to lose out on anything

else. Just get this over with and let me out of here."

With skilled fingers, he probed the man's ribs and stomach, checking

throat and eyes, all the things that necessitated the examination. Finished,

he leaned against the wall across from Calavicci. "You can get dressed."

"What's the verdict?" Al asked, pulling on his pants.

"I'd say you should put about forty more pounds on, get plenty of

rest, and stay away from cigars."

"Nag, nag, nag." Al made a face as he buttoned his shirt. "I've been

eating like a pig, sleeping twelve hours at a time, and screw you as far as

my cigars go."

"That's pretty rough." Turning away from his patient, it suddenly

struck him that Tom could've been captured, like this man had, and come

home a different person. Maybe Calavicci used to be a half nice guy and

the war turned him into this.

"Hey, I know what you're thinking - you're wrong, Bucko." How old

was this kid, anyway? Not old enough to be a last year intern, it seemed,

that was for sure. "I'm not what you see here, once you get to know me.

See, I'm a little irritable today because the Navy's been giving me the

runaround about my wife. When I was released from the hospital in San

Diego I took off for home faster than you could spit. We had this bungalow

- she loved it. Anyway, the house was empty, and the For Sale sign said

Sold. Got it? Good. So, every time I ask the Navy for the forwarding

information she had to give, they say something has broken down, or the

current copy isn't available, whatever the hell that is supposed to mean. I

came all the way to D.C., even if I'm supposed to be in Texas, and they say

another exam. No info on Beth - that's my wife. She could be in a coma

or something, or in a car accident - they aren't saying. So knock off

sympathetic looks, because no doctor worth their salt in abrasiveness

worries about anyone but their accountant. Take it from your pal, Al."

The intern had to laugh at the quick patter. There was no touch of pain

in the man's voice, or anxiety, just extreme irritability and annoyance.

"You look like someone with sense." Al pulled out and lit another cigar,

shrugging apologetically. "Sorry, but I'm making up for five years, okay?

As I was saying, you look to me like a guy with brains. Get out of this

outfit and maybe take up knitting or something."

"Try quantum physics." The words were blurted, as if desperate to get

them out. He was so tired of being seen as only a doctor, another faceless

physician when there was so much more he could do. He didn't usually

speak of his other work to other doctors, or, especially, patients. They

wouldn't understand. "Now, you know, that's funny." Al was looking at

the intern in a totally different light. "See, that's one of my moonlighting

ventures. When I wasn't piloting planes. courtesy of the U.S. Navy, I was

going to M.I.T. for a physics degree. Quantum physics. It's like this -

flying is my pie, physics my ice cream. Always liked numbers, math, that

sort of stuff. That's one of the reasons NASA asked for me, just three

days after I was repatriated. That, and my natural charisma."

"I . . . I'm going to M.I.T. and finish school there as soon as I get

my medical degree."

"Ain't that a kick in the butt." New admiration filled Al's eyes.

"So why bother getting a medical degree, and the extra grief?"

Turning quickly, he pretended to be very interested in his patient's

chart, avoiding the curious gaze. "Uh, personal reasons," he said, too

quickly.

Al heard the catch in the intern's voice, and decided not to press. There

was something really special about this kid, he thought, heading for the

door. Hesitating, hand on the knob, he turned. "Look, I'm going to be here

a couple of nights. Paperwork, all that Naval stuff. When are you off

duty?"

"Late." Grinning, he set the chart aside.

"Hey, I'm an experienced night owl, and bar crawler."

"I . . . don't drink."

Al's gaze widened in amazement. "Let me get this straight - a

medical student that doesn't drink?"

"Uh, I study a lot." This conversation was getting uncomfortable. All

friendships ended the same, it seemed. They found out he was this

strange, alien genius, and they'd leave. Or treat him 'funny'.

"Listen, most of these guys around here wouldn't know physics if it bit

them on the ass. I just bet you're starving for someone to explain your

theories to." He leaned forward, almost nose to nose with the kid. "You

have theories, all good physicists do."

"Actually, I'd like to take you up on that, and I have tomorrow off.

My shift ends at midnight, though."

"Fine. I'll meet you outside the main entrance." Turning back to the

door, Al stopped, knowing he'd forgotten something. He looked back at the

intern as he opened the door. "I don't know your name."

"It's Beckett," he answered. "Sam Beckett."

After waiting thirty minutes outside Bethesda, Sam was beginning to

wonder if this Al guy would show up. He was on the verge of catching the

bus, when he heard a screech of abused tires, and a shout.

"Thought I forgot you?" The was as bright red as was allowed,

screaming, insane scarlet. "The first thing I got when I came back from

'Nam," Al shouted over the roar of the engine, answering the wide eyed

look Sam was giving him. "A '72 Firebird. State of the art, all the

goodies. You ready to go, or fall asleep on your feet?"

Slipping into the passenger seat of the car, Sam had no idea what he

was in for. They tore out of the parking lot at lightning speed, ran two

red lights, and honked at some departing nurses, before the younger man

could catch his breath.

"God, I love Navy nurses." The radio was blaring "Smoke on the Water"

and Al's volume was competing. "My wife, Beth, she's a nurse. The best.

You married?"

"Uh, no." Sam quickly reached down and turned the music to a more

moderate level. "I hate to shout," he explained, a Cheshire cat smile

crossing his face.

"Kid your age, you should be married. Take me for instance. I wasn't

even twenty-five when I met Beth. We were at this dance, and she wore a

white dress. Just stunning. Couldn't take my eyes off of her for a

second. We got married two months later."

Sam glanced over and noticed that Al's face had lost it's happy go lucky

look, and even his foot was easing off the accelerator. "The Navy will find

her, Al."

"Aw, I know." Breaking from his reverie, Al pressed on the gas and let

the car tear down the nearly empty streets. "They haven't let me down

yet. Not yet."

Sam vetoed Al's suggestion to go to a bar, explaining finances, and

not wanting Al to treat him as threatened. They ended up at Sam's modest

apartment in D.C.

Al glanced around the rooms as they entered. The walls were empty,

save one photo of what looked to be the kid's family. It was a holiday

shot - Christmas or Thanksgiving. Grinning Dad on one side of Sam, big

brother on the other, Mom and sis in pretty dresses looking annoyed at the

three men. A nice family.

"Uh, that's an old shot." Sam glanced at the photo for a second and

hurried into the kitchenette. "I don't have much in the way of food -

what about ordering a pizza or something?"

"Extra pepperoni - and I'll make the call." Al wanted to ask about the

picture - there was something about the look in the kid's eyes when he

caught him looking at it. That could wait. "I know the best joint, not far

from here. They deliver all night, for those goof-offs at the Pentagon." He

dialed the number by memory and made the order. Hanging up the phone,

he slumped onto a convenient rocking chair and put his feet up on the

hassock.

Sam came out of the kitchen carrying two frosty, open bottles of Coke

and offered one to Al. "Making yourself comfortable?"

"Nice and cozy." Al practically purred. The chair he was sitting in was

overstuffed and like heaven to sit in and the room itself radiated warmth.

He felt right at home.

"My Mom . . . she wanted me to have some furniture from . . " Sam's

head dipped, hiding his eyes.

"Now that's the second time you've done that." Al's voice was kind,

and concerned. "Everything okay, kid?"

"Yeah. Just fine." Al was much more perceptive than he let on at first.

Under that rough front was a closet mensch, as his Jewish landlady would

say.

"Something's wrong or you wouldn't be wearing that . . . sick puppy

look."

"I lost my dad about ten months ago. I missed Thanksgiving, because

of school, and . . . he died the day after." Something in Al's face made him

want to talk it out, bring it into the open. "Mom refused to let me maintain

the farm, even though it's been in the family six generations. She wanted

me to have a life, go to school. Follow my dreams, even though she doesn't

understand some of them. My sister, Kate, and her husband, Jim, moved

her to their home in Hawaii after the farm was sold. I got the furniture

you see here, which really makes this place pretty cozy, as you say."

"You have a brother? Why didn't he take over the farm?"

"Uh, he couldn't," Sam answered. "Uh, Tom, he was my older brother."

He bit the lower lip, the pain of his death still sweet and strong. It hurt.

"He died in Viet Nam four years ago, in April." His jaw clenched over the

pain that gripped his chest. It had come on so suddenly. Maybe it was the

look on Al's face - not quite sympathetic, but listening and drinking in

every word he said.

"What happened?"

"Well, they said he was shot on some secret mission. He was a Navy

Seal." Slumping into his desk chair, he faced the window, fingers gripping

the edge of the armrests. Tears suddenly came to his eyes, as he

remembered. "They sent him home in a box, and suggested that we not

open it. His face . .."

Al leaned forward, his feet dropping off the hassock and onto the

floor. "You opened it, didn't you?"

"I wanted to see him and my parents . . ." Sam bit back a sob, eyes

clenched tight against the wetness that spilled over and down his cheeks.

"Sam . . ."

His eyes opened. He was almost surprised to see Al at his arm,

crouched down, concern and shared emotion mirrored in his expressive

eyes.

"Christ, kid, that took guts."

"I wanted to know it was him." He clenched his hands so tight in front

of him that he was afraid he'd break his fingers. "I heard that sometimes

. . . when they came home . . . they send the wrong person."

"Christ kid, you've never grieved for him, have you?"

Sam shook his head, his throat too tight to make words.

Al moved the chair Sam was in so he could see the younger man's face.

The friendly eyes were small and hard, mouth thin, jaw clenched against

the pain. "I bet you were everybody's Rock of Gibralter at the funeral,

right?"

Sam felt another rush of tears. "Katie, she cried," he said, his voice

choked and tear-filled. "Mom was fine until Dad fell apart. I didn't feel

anything, then. They were all leaning on me, wanting comfort. If I had

allowed myself to let go . . . " He shook his head. "I was going to

college, the oldest boy. I had responsibilities."

"How old are you, kid?"

"You keep calling me kid."

"That's because, compared to me, you are a kid. Answer my question."

"Nineteen." There was no sneer on Al's face, as there had been with

so many others. "I guess that explains why I lost control."

"Men cry, too." Al brushed Sam's shoulder with the back of his hand

as he got up. "Saw a lot of that in 'Nam."

The pain and tears were dissipating. "I guess you think I'm pretty

strange, inviting you up here, crying all over the carpet like this."

"It looks to me, pal, that you needed someone to talk to, and not

about Physics." Al pulled out a cigar and gestured 'do you mind?'

"Go ahead, but it's not good for you," Sam said, wiping what tears

were left with the back of his hand.

Al lit up, standing near the window so the smoke would go out. Taking

a couple of thoughtful puffs, he looked back at Sam. "It seems to me your

parents expected too much."

"No. It was my decision to make up for losing Tom like we did, so..."

"Bull." Al took another puff. "They wanted you to go to M.I.T. when you

were sixteen years old?"

"It was a scholarship. I graduated from high school then, and there

were a lot of offers. Indiana State offered me one to play basketball, but

Tom told me I was wasting myself."

"And he was right." He gestured with the cigar at the photo on the

wall. "I just remembered where I saw that."

"You remember the article in Time?"

"I should, I only read it last week."

"That was months ago, when I played Carnegie."

"I've got some catching up to do, news-wise. That picture was in the

article." Al waved over at the photo again. "They said that you were some

kind of genius, reading at age two, out-learning your music teacher,

playing chess with a computer at age ten. You were the smartest kid in

the world."

Sam shrugged, trying not to look uncomfortable.

"It's no fun being smart when you're sixteen. You probably wanted to

have fun, date girls, go to parties, but you also wanted to please Mom and

Dad, too, am I right?"

"I did all that stuff, Al. I had a girlfriend, Lisa. She's dating

No-Nose Pruitt now. I played basketball, goofed around with my friends,

got in trouble. My parents made sure my life was normal so I wouldn't be

treated different."

Al sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall under the window.

He gazed up at the face above him. It was evident that he was looking at a

dying race - and - a human being who thought more of others than

himself. "This medical degree thing. You did that for them, too?"

"It's necessary." Leaning forward in the chair, Sam tilted his head back.

"After Tom died, I went into medicine. Back home, being a doctor was like

the pinnacle of success. Maybe I did it to impress people, but I don't think

so. Dad wanted a doctor in the family, and it was so simple. I could get

the degree in three years instead of five, and still go back to M.I.T. for the

other degree. I'm taking extension courses, too, for other things. Dad

thought I was overextending myself, and, maybe I was. Suddenly, I didn't

have time to go home, or make a call. He had a heart attack, very sudden."

His voice softened, but he'd cried himself out. There was nothing left to

shed, just the empty feeling inside of him when he spoke of Dad. "He was

the best father, a good, honest, man. Something told me he'd know if I got

this degree and did some good for people with it. He always told me to use

my mind to help others, not myself, that I could make a fortune, or feel

good, and those were my two choices in life. I loved him."

"When did they find out you were a Super-Q?"

"Mrs. Greenburg, my piano teacher, sort of clued the school system in.

And my brother. See, Tom brought his homework home - he was five

years older than me, and I could do his math in my head. Suddenly he

went from 'C' to 'A' work in a matter of days. He was a pretty honest guy

and told the teacher what he'd done. They didn't believe him, seeing I

wasn't even in school yet. The next thing you know I was taking tests, and

in third grade, a year below Tom. Talk about humiliating for him, but he

never showed it. My parents were scared, worried about me, about what

kind of affect this could have in the long run. They consulted the family

doctor." Sam grinned. "It sounds strange, but we went to him for

everything - he was even our lawyer. Doc said to accelerate through

school, and get my degrees as quickly as possible, bang, bang, bang."

There was a knock at the door. "Pizza," Al growled, moving to his feet.

He glanced at the younger man. "Bang, eh? Be careful you don't overload

and explode." Sam made motions to go for his wallet, but Al shook his

head firmly. "This is my treat, kid."

The pizza was consumed with an appetite Sam Beckett hadn't felt in

months. "I don't usually talk much to people," he said, biting hungrily into

his fourth piece. "They usually want to talk about Time Magazine, and

what a genius I am."

"Don't talk with your mouth full. It gives me the pukies." Al made a

disgusted face. "Okay, we were talking about that. M.I.T., Indiana State,

Mom selling the farm. How did you end up in Maryland?"

"Tom was a Navy Seal. I could've interned anywhere, but I wanted to

intern at Bethesda because they wouldn't draft me. Also, it's close enough

to Cambridge that I could go up to talk to Professor LoNigro when I had

days off. He's one of the people who wants to work on my theory with me,

head of the physics department."

"You _tried_ to get drafted?" Al tossed down the half eaten mozzarella

that was hanging from his fingers. "Let me tell you something. they

would've eaten you alive over there. You were needed here, where you

could use that brain of yours to help people instead of kill them. When the

government finds out you have a mind, and intelligence, then you can

worry about working for them. Finish your pre-doctorship or whatever it's

called . . ."

"Internship."

"Thank you. And get out of D.C., Maryland, this whole damn place. If

you don't, they'll find a way to bury you in some damn think tank, or

where you'll go in and never come out. See, kid, you have compassion.

That's an emotion, for those of us in the know. When our friendly

neighborhood G-Men find out not only does _he_ have a brain, but he has a

heart, sure fire they'll find some way to break it."

"What happened to you, Al? Were you trying to please someone by

going to 'Nam?"

"Myself." The word came out sharp and no nonsense. "I played with

the idea of becoming a war hero to impress myself."

"And Beth?"

"She was ready to file for divorce when I put in for my second tour.

Then, right after I re-upped, I was captured by VC. Viet Cong, for the

uninitiated."

"I've seen patients die from the after effects, Al."

"Yeah, well." His face darkened. "I don't want to talk about it. When I

get Beth back it will all be worth it. I'll turn in my commission and give

her the life we both needed. Kids, a dog, if she wants."

"I don't want to play devil's advocate, but what if . . .?" "No 'what

ifs'!" There was a bit of uncertainty slipping into the coldness of Al's

tone. "I know she's out there wondering why the Navy didn't call her

sooner. I wouldn't be surprised if she shows up here tomorrow." He lit another

cigar, trying to keep his voice level. There were other thoughts in his

head that he refused to say out loud, so that hope could live. "Maybe there's

something wrong with her physically, like a coma after a traffic accident.

You'll love her. She has this thing for rhythm and blues, flowers, just a

real lady."

"Did the Navy let you know today if they'd have word soon? You said

they might."

"Tomorrow." Al puffed nervously on the cigar, as if his body was

starved for the taste of it. "In the morning." He shrugged. "They're

probably flying her in from somewhere. You can meet her tomorrow

night, if you want to."

"Oh, I don't know." Sam turned his face away, a blush slowly creeping

up his cheeks. "I mean, you said you hadn't seen her for five years and..."

"Right," Al said quickly. "Maybe the night after."

The two men spent the rest of the night talking, not noticing the sun

crest the horizon until the room was lit by it. Physics, it seemed, could

bring the oddest combinations together. They managed to talk a little

about science, too.

"You want to travel in time?" Al almost swallowed his cigar.

"Well, yes." Sam shoved some papers across the desk to Al, covering up

the math problems they'd fooled around with earlier. "I call it the string

theory."

"Cute. You could market that."

"Seriously, Al. It's possible to travel in time."

Al could see the enthusiasm in the warm eyes, and the sincerity. Not

a bit of fooling around. "So explain this string theory to me - simply,

because I'm getting pretty worn out." He puffed on cigar number five

(since he'd arrived), raising his eyebrows. "I'm not as young as I look,

either."

Sam grabbed the ever present piece of string. It was always there for

him to fool with when he was studying. Holding one end up, he explained,

"This is your birth." Left hand came up with the other end. "Your death."

He tied the ends to form a circle. "Loop the string and birth and death are

at either end with all the days of your life in the middle." Deftly, he

dropped the loop into his free hand, the string layering upon itself. "Ball

the string up and the days and years are jumbled together. Quantum

leaping. Leaping from place to place in your own life span."

"And you think this will work?"

"Well, eventually," Sam said, carefully placing the string in the drawer

and closing it. "With the proper funding, and I'm becoming an expert on

that, too."

"I bet, kid." He shook his head. "You also got some memory. The

numbers - I mean, you remember everything."

"My sister Kate says I have a swiss cheese brain. I get holes on things

I don't want to remember. Other than that, they say I have a photographic

memory."

"Why is it, every time you say something that should be considered a

compliment it sounds like you're embarrassed?"

"Because I am."

"Don't be, kid. Take my word, someday you will travel in time. Maybe

change a few things for the better. I can see it in those boy scout eyes of

yours." Al's stomach rumbled. The pizza had long been decimated, as well

as Beckett's supply of soft drinks. "What say I take you out to the best

breakfast of your life."

"You suggest the place and I pay this time," Sam said, eyes crinkling

at the corners as he smiled.

The two men commiserated pleasantly over a huge Denny's breakfast.

It seemed that they couldn't stop the conversation, not for a minute. One

response drew into a new subject, and they carried on from there. Each

were on their third cup of coffee when they realized that it was nearly

nine a.m. and that Al had obligations for the day.

Half-asleep, Sam thankfully accepted the ride home from Al. They had

made arrangements to meet the next evening and it seemed their

friendship was firmly cemented. With real regret, Sam watched as Al

pulled away, his Firebird practically tearing up pavement as he hurried

back to the base.

He shoved aside the thought of the day trip he'd planned to Cambridge.

Anyway, he grinned, opening the door to the complex, an evening with Al

Calavicci had filled that craving he'd had to talk to people on his own

level.

Al had been kept waiting in the foyer of the base counselor for more

time than his limited patience could hold out. By the time he was allowed

to enter his office his nerves and senses were on edge. Something was up,

he could tell. The doctor, Captain Burch, was too polite, making small

talk about anything but what the ex-POW had come there for.

"Where is she?" Al leaned over Burch's desk. The doctor had one of

those infuriating, non-emotional expressions on his face. "I've been

getting the fucking runaround from you people for two months. My own people,

my Navy family," he said, not hiding the sarcasm in his voice. "I want my

wife. If she's dead, damn I can take it. I want to see her grave. If

she's alive I want to know what's keeping her from being here with me."

A tightness formed around the professional's face. Captain Calavicci, as

obnoxious, and loud as he was, had given up five years of his life for his

service. He deserved better than what he had to tell him. "Your wife

isn't dead. Please sit down, and we'll talk about her status."

"Status." Al slumped in the chair indicated, practically ripping a

cigar from the shirt pocket of his rumpled uniform. "All right," he said,

lighting it. "I'm listening."

Burch steepled his fingers in front of his lips, looking directly at

the man in front of him. "Mrs. Calavicci left you a note, and it was

withheld..."

"Note? What note?" Al snapped.

"As I was explaining, your wife left you a note, which I have in my

possession. Apparently, she saw your photo in Life magazine while you

were being held in Viet Nam. Several months before it was printed she

initiated proceedings, quite legally, to declare you absentia so she could

remarry."

"Absentia." Al felt everything in him crumble. "A nice word for

'dead', right, Doc?"

"The psychiatrist who treated you at Balboa when you were first

repatriated thought it prudent that the information be held from you until

you had recovered enough, physically and mentally, to handle the news."

It took Al a moment to compose himself and check the scream that

threatened to tear his throat apart. With a voice as dead as his soul, he

asked, "Where is she?"

"Mrs. Calavicci asked that the information of her whereabouts not be

revealed to you, for the time being. She is remarried and wants to save

you both further grief." He offered the man a sealed envelope and a

sympathetic look.

Al took both numbly, and pocketed the letter without reading it.

"Thank you," he whispered, standing to leave.

"Of course, you are due in Texas in 48 hours, but under the

circumstances they are willing to allow you an additional three days leave.

I've very sorry, Captain."

Without another word, Al left the room. In a daze, he went through

the halls, out the entrance, and to his car. He felt as if he were dead, and

no one had bothered to tell him. The same questions he'd asked himself for

years came back to haunt him.

Mom, you left us. Was I the reason? What did I do?

Dad, I didn't pray hard enough. It's my fault things turned out the

way they did.

Trudy, you had no idea I'd come back to you. If I had been there

sooner, you would have lived.

And now, Beth. Those months in that stinking jungle, his only thoughts

of her, and the home they'd make when he came back. For fie years,

eating a bowl of rice a day, tortured, sick, burning with fevers, only

thinking of her, and a life together. Pressing his forehead to the top of

the steering wheel, he remember other, darker thoughts. The ones he'd

dismiss, rejecting them as something 'she'd never do'. What if someone

more attractive, more stable, came into her life while he was gone? Five

years is a long time to wait for a man believed dead. Wasn't that what

Charlie had said -that he was a dead man to his wife? Hot tears ran

unchecked down his face, his sobs soundless. A dead man, with no home,

no one to love. No reason to live.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Sam disentangled himself from the blankets and caught the phone on

the fourth annoying noise. "What?" he snarled, assuming it was the

hospital.

"Sam?"

Frowning, Sam unsnarled the phone cord from his body, switching the

receiver to the other ear. "Al, is that you?"

"Yeah." The voice on the other end held none of the devil-may-care

attitude of the man he'd spent the night talking with. "This was a

mistake."

"Where are you?" Sam felt his heart go into his throat. Something

did go wrong, probably with his wife. "I'll come and get you?"

"Can't . . ."

Sam could barely hear the word or the sentence that trailed off into

nothing. Al sounded drunk, disorientated. Clutching the receiver with

both hands, he found he was shaking. "Listen, Al. Tell me where you are?

I care. What happened?"

There was silence for such a long time that Sam thought that Al had

hung up. "I blew it, Sam," he said finally. "Don't worry about me, kid."

Sam had heard that tone of voice before, in the voices of the men at

Bethesda who had tried to kill themselves. As pathetic, uncaring. "Damn

it, Al." Sam sharpened his words. "Can you come here? I want to see

you."

"Look, kid." There was a touch of desperation in Al's voice, as if he

were trying to hide something. "I'll just louse up your life, too."

"You wouldn't have called me if you didn't need me. And I'm here.

Please . . ."

The dial tone cut off any more words Sam could say. Slumping onto the

bed, he held the dead receiver in his lap, shutting his eyes tight. He had a

strong belief in God, or whoever held this world together, and that

everything had a reason. Even the deaths of the people he loved. Not Al,

though, not him. He'd known him less than twenty-four hours and already

knew that he was a fighter. If he'd received bad news from the Navy about

Beth, it would crush him, but not break him.

to be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

I would crush him, but not break him.

It was nearly dark, and eight hours had passed since Al's call. Sam

held vigil at his window, watching for his friend, almost willing for him to

show up at any moment, drunk, half-dead, he didn't care, as long as he was alive

and whole.

The sight he hungered for finally appeared. The flame red car pulled

in front of the building. The small man, looking unsteady, and disarrayed,

stumbled from the car, slamming the drivers door loudly. The dark head

tilted back, eyes peering directly up at Sam's vantage point, as if to

verify, yes, he was there.

Sam hurried to the door of his apartment, not knowing what to expect.

Was Al drunk? Sick? Apprehension tensed him up again, worried that it

was something much worse than a drinking binge that made Al so

unsteady.

Waiting by the open apartment door, Sam could hear Al's tread on the

stairs. His first sight of the man made him almost gasp. The dark eyes

were shaded, his whole face haunted and distant. Somehow, he looked

thinner and more frail, like an old man. "Come in," Sam said, trying hard

not to allow the fear to enter his voice or expression. Appear normal, he

thought, like nothing is wrong.

For the first time in the day Sam had known this man, he was silent.

Frighteningly so. Sam closed the door behind him and watched as Al

staggered over to the couch and fell on it, his feet hitting one end the same

time as his head fell to the other. He was still dressed in full military

dress whites, and he smelled like a distillery.

Sam sat down on the coffee table next to the couch and watched his

friend with concern. The dark eyes were barely cracked open, staring at

nothing. Drinking wasn't the least of Al's problems. There was something

else, and Sam couldn't pin it down until he noticed the dark red stain

marring the white left cuff of the dress jacket.

In an instant, Sam was moving, forcing Al to sit up, taking off the

jacket so he could examine him. The arm was sliced from wrist to elbow, not

done with a razor, but something sharp. The wound wasn't deep, but still

bleeding, seeping blood.

Al remained silent, his eyes meeting Sam's horrified gaze for a moment,

before turning away. He swallowed, eyes shifting to gaze at the ceiling.

Working on instinct, and shoving his emotions to the side for a moment,

Sam rushed to his medical bag, and brought it over to the couch. The cut

was shallow, as if done half-heartedly. Nevertheless, it would need

stitches. Should he call the hospital? He held the limp hand in his own,

feeling the rapid pulse under his fingers.

He made his decision. If anyone else found out about this, Al would

lose more than whatever he lost today. His chances with NASA and the

Navy would be shot to hell. No one would want an ex-POW with a botched

suicide attempt on his record. If that was, in fact, what it was.

"I have to stitch this, Al. You only need a few." Sam pressed his

lips together to form a thin line. He couldn't tell if Al could comprehend

anything he was saying. "Do you understand?" he asked, placing a gentle

hand on his friend's chest.

Finally, the glassiness lifted from Al's eyes as he turned to face

Sam. He couldn't even remember arriving here, or how he'd driven the car across

town. All he knew was that someone - Sam - was touching him,

concerned and scared. "Kid . . ."

"Great." Sam sighed in relief. "Now, I need to stitch up your arm ..."

"My arm." Al frowned, glancing down at the cut as if it were someone

else's wound. "How'd that happen?"

"You tell me." Sam bent to pick up his medical bag and set it on the

coffee table. Everything he needed was in there.

"Why are you doing this for me?"

"Because I give a damn, okay?" Sam got up and went to the kitchen,

washing his hands with hot water and lots of soap. Returning to the living

room, he wiped off on a white tea towel he'd grabbed and knelt by the

sofa.

Al watched distantly as Sam cleaned the wound and prepared it for the

stitches. It should hurt; the alcohol stung his nose as Sam dabbed it on the

wound. He felt nothing. Maybe it was the booze he'd consumed earlier, or

just that nothing could permeate the numb feeling that cocooned him.

Before Sam began the stitching, he looked up. "I want to give you

something, but I don't know how much you drank or how long ago. It's

going to hurt like hell."

"Just do it, okay?" Al turned his head away, trying not to see the

slash of pain that crossed Sam's face at his words. "I can't feel a thing."

The wound was neatly bandaged. The only emotion Al had expressed

during the entire operation was indifference. Sam removed the jacket and

white shirt, leaving Al in a scoop neck t-shirt. The wrapping that encircled

the lower part of his right arm was bright against his dark skin. As Sam

hung the jacket over a chair, he noticed the envelope sticking out of the

inside pocket, unopened.

The dark eyes glanced at Sam for a moment, then, shrugging, he turned

away.

"I, uh, can't open this." Sam took the letter and tossed it on the coffee

table, landing directly on the space between the two men. "Can you tell me

what happened?"

"You're repeating yourself, pal." Al tossed his bandaged arm over his

eyes. "She left me for another guy. Had me declared dead so she could get

married."

Sam lowered himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged near Al. "Do

you know why?"

"No." The word was said tightly, as if even the effort of speaking

was painful.

"Is this the letter she wrote you?" The envelope rested on the bare

coffee table, a silent witness to the conversation. "Don't you think if she

was the woman you said she was that she'd try to explain herself? Or at

least make an attempt?"

Silence hung over them, heavy and uncomfortable. Al laid there like

stone, unmoving and uncaring. Damn her, Sam thought, and damn that

unopened letter.

Sam wanted to touch the other man, hold him close so the pain would

go away, like his brother had held him many times. Something was forcing

him to keep his distance, freezing him out.

After many long minutes, Al turned to look at the younger man. Sam

seemed so concerned, protecting his ass. He should've called Bethesda and

let them take care of the problem, not risked losing his internship by

treating him here. And what if he had called? I'd lose my commission, he

thought, and my chances for what future I've got left.

Sam looked at the older man expectantly.

"Thanks, Sam." Al said. He lowered his bandaged arm, his eyes gazing

at the wrapping as if seeing it for the first time. "You'll be a good

doctor someday."

"Quantum physicist, remember?" A mischievous glint appeared in his

green eyes.

"Ah, Sam, I blew it, okay?" Al pushed his upper body up onto the

pillows that had been piled behind him. Some of the apathy was leaving

his face.

"Feel like talking about it or . . . "

"Or wallow in self pity?"

"She kept you alive."

"Five years in 'Nam. I set my expectations for her too high. Lived in a

fantasy world, thinking her and I would be a fifties sitcom, with kids and a

white picket fence."

Sam reached over and picked up the letter, touching the sealed

envelope with his fingers. It was cream colored, small, like an invitation

to a party.

"Read it to me, Sam." He could handle it if the kid read the words,

his voice would mellow what Al already knew in his heart.

With his nail, he gently ripped open the letter. The note fell into

his hand. There wasn't much to it, Sam discovered. The handwriting was

written with a delicate hand and he caught just the faintest touch of

perfume. His head came up sharply, looking at his friend in concern. Al

had gasped as if in pain, but now his face had eased into the same

expressionless lines.

"Dear Al," Sam began, keeping his eyes on Al. Like stone, the dark eyes

staring at nothing. "I don't know where to begin. You were gone for five

years, with no word, no hope. I held out, waiting for word. Really, I

did.

"I met a man, April first, 1970. That week I'd lost another kid and I

think that was the last straw. I couldn't keep my hopes up for you. Dirk

stayed with me through the weekend. He was so compassionate, and

caring. You'd like him, Al."

"Fat chance."

Sam felt his worries lighten somewhat. Al's words were bitter, but

the fight was coming back.

"I couldn't wait, Al," Sam continued. "I had to let you go so I could

marry Dirk. I love you, always will. The waiting was too much - I had a

chance to have a life, with someone who cares. Please don't hate me too

long, Al. Remember the good times. Love, Beth."

"'Dirk' is a name people give their bulldogs."

Sam grinned, slipping the note into it's envelope. "You sound

better."

"Yeah." Al frowned, readjusting his hurt arm for the umpteenth time.

It was beginning to throb.

Frowning, Sam got up and returned with a full, unopened bottle of Jack

Daniel's and two tumblers. Pouring the whiskey into the glasses, he

handed one to Al. "I didn't think I could convince you to eat something

and this will cut the pain. You don't seem like the 'pill' type, and I

think I'm fresh out of painkillers."

Sitting back in the rocking chair opposite the couch, Sam took a cautious

sip of the alcohol. It burned a trail down his throat and hit his stomach

with a bounce.

"It shows in your eyes." Al grimaced as he sipped the whiskey. "You

won't be able to work tomorrow."

"I took the next three days off.' Sam took another sip, smiling. It

didn't burn quite as bad this time. 'I had some days accumulated. Something

told me I was needed at home."

"Oh yeah, for me. Mr. Stupid." Al downed the glass, making Sam's eyes

widen. "I put my arm through a plate glass window. Pissed off. The owner

of the bar wasn't amused, but let it pass because I was an officer." He

refilled his glass and eased back on the couch. "But no gentleman."

Sam wasn't convinced by the story, mainly because if that had

happened the sleeve would've been torn to shreds, but he let it pass. The

little alcohol he'd had was having a mellowing effect on him. He knew he

was grinning like an idiot, but couldn't wipe the silly expression off his

face.

Al gave him an odd expression. "Why do you care about what happens

to me? For Christ's sake, we only met last night, and not under the best

of circumstances. I've been more trouble than I'm worth."

"You are worthy!" Sam's voice slurred on the 'worthy', but he could see

the amusement on the older man's face. "You don't treat me like I'm

different." He leaned forward, gesturing with the half full glass, as if

trying to make a point. "Do you know how many friends I have right

now?"

"None."

"Wrong!

"_None_." Sam slammed back into the rocker, nearly dumping drink

and himself on the floor. His chin came up at the snicker that Al half-

stifled. "They treat me like a leper at the hospital. Like I'm some kind

of weird nerd or something. A museum piece." He drained the glass, nearly

choking.

"Easy, kid." Al quickly refilled Sam's and his own glass. Sam might

be a minor, but tonight they both needed a good drunk. "No fun, huh?"

"I'm only here to get my degree and get out." Sam eyed the glass as

if trying to decide to drink or not.

"You'll be a damn good doctor." Too good, he added privately, taking

another drink of the whiskey.

"I'm good at everything, but you . . ." He jabbed his finger at the man

on the couch. "You! Letting her mess your mind up like this, making you

crazy, doing crazy stuff. You've got a good life, a job, going to Space.

I'd kill to do that."

"You can, you know. I could fix it up and we'd work together down

there."

"Not now." Sam waved the suggestion off. "I've got plans, like you

do. You know, time travel."

"Okay, kid, okay." Al's gaze softened. He was beginning to feel human

again. It was the company, the light conversation, the way the kid seemed

to need him around, to keep him on track. "You hit M.I.T. in a few months,

like I told you. Buckle down, get your degrees, get your smarts in gear,

and we'll work on the rest."

"Together?"

"At your side, kid." Al pushed himself up from the couch and took the

glass from Sam's hand. "You keep in touch, and I won't be far away. I'll

be at your commencement, and Christmas, if you want me." His own voice

took on a lost quality. "If you'll have me."

"Wanna go to Hawaii?" Sam leaned forward, laugh lines forming around

his eyes. "Meet my Mom?"

"I don't think . . ."

"Hey, she'll like you a lot. And Katie. You and Jim, that's her

husband, can trade stories. He's in the Navy, too. My mother makes this peach

cobbler, with this crust, and sauce. It melts in your mouth. I'm going in

December. Well, what's your answer?"

The kid's tumbled together words made Al smile. "I don't know, kid.

I've got this thing about crashing family parties, and . . ."

Sam's face fell. "My family would love you." The struggle to fight

for the right words in his fuddled brain was clearly shown on his face. "They

have to meet you because I think you'll be a part of my life from here on.

It sounds soppy, and sentimental, to be sure, but it's the truth. Don't

ask me how I know. Mom says I have this sixth sense. I can tell the future.

Katie says it just proves my brain is swiss-cheesed, I think."

Al felt his eyes fill, and brushed the wetness away rapidly, hoping Sam

hadn't noticed. "If it's that important to you, I'd like to go to Hawaii."

"You'll get leave for Christmas, right?"

"Christmas. It'll be my first one since . . ."

Sam's face instantly sobered, realizing. "Since your last one with

Beth." Al squared his shoulders, clearing his throat. "I hope you understand

this." He glanced uneasily at the serious look the kid was giving him. "We

don't discuss her again, not ever. I'm declaring Beth Calavicci dead. It's all

behind me now, the Camp, her. I'm a free man, now, and every nurse,

WAVE, and barmaid in the D.C. area is going to know I'm available in the

next 72 hours. Beth, as a subject, is closed." Firmly, Al shut that door

in his mind. Finito. "Now," he said, sitting up. "What and when? I need

dates, times, pal. Pull yourself together and let's get this trip straight."

"Right." Sam lit up like a million, zillion light bulbs. Suddenly, Al's

face held an expression that he was beginning to know well. Expectation and

worry.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked.

"You." Al slumped against the pillows. "You got to watch it, kid.

You're so ... 'golly, gee, whiz' about everything. I'm afraid someone is going

to take advantage of you, like the government, or some company, and wipe

that enthusiasm right out of you."

Sam, eternally confident, shook his head. "Won't happen. I've already

promised myself to be my own boss."

"It doesn't work that way, Sam, not with the work you want to do.

You'll need Grants, loans, government issued finances. You've got to learn

to grab the money and not let them own you."

"Well, I think I can stand my own ground."

Al didn't sound so confident. "It's guaranteed - with that

attitude, kid, I'll be right behind you, watching your ass."

In the next three days Al gave the younger man several 'how to pick up

a girl' lessons, much to Sam's chagrin. It made the intern's head spin to

see how fast Al recovered from Beth. Or seemed to recover. You could never

tell, with Al. It seemed that he was good at covering up the pain that lay

within him.

Al, in turn, learned how to care again. He felt personally responsible

for Sam, and teaching him how to have 'fun' instead of spending the best

years of his life buried in an Ivory Tower. It was like pulling teeth to get

the kid to take a night on the town and enjoy it without cracking a book or

two when they got home. Al secretly promised the younger man that he'd

always be there to remind him that there was a world outside of studying

and research, no matter the circumstances.

NASA decided that they wanted Captain Calavicci immediately, and his

week leave was rescinded. The staff psychiatrist had questions about the

bandage on Al's arm, but some easy maneuvering around the awkward

questions passed him with flying colors. (With Sam's help, of course. The

kid was learning.)

Airports. Al didn't usually hate them. Their separation was the

hardest thing he'd ever had to do. What made it worse was the look on the

kid's face; a mixture of concern and sadness. It occurred to the older man,

quite correctly, that Sam had to say goodbye to his brother and father

under similar circumstances. After the stupid stunt he'd pulled after

hearing about Beth, and the desperation of the moments after he'd arrived

at Sam's apartment, he knew his friend still worried about his state of

mind.

As Al climbed the stairs to the plane, he looked back. The kid was

standing out on the tarmac, wind blowing his thick, brown hair to one side,

still as stone. There was family there, Al realized, watching him leave. Not

even Beth, damn her, had ever seen him off on whatever assignments he'd

gone on. Or Viet Nam.

Dumping his bags in the plane, Al motioned to the pilot to wait. He

dashed down the stairs and ran to Sam. They stood face to face for a few

moments, just eyeing each other.

"I'll miss you," Sam said. Pure sentimentality, but from the heart.

"I'm not gone for good." Al tipped the brim of his mess hat from his

face, gazing up at the man that he knew would always be taller than he

was. "I'm going to make you a promise that I've never made before, with

any sincerity, anyway."

"Which is?" Sam cocked his head to one side.

"I'll write you." Al said it as if he were promising the moon. "Now,

I don't guarantee you'll be able to read my handwriting, but you'll need the

practice for later, when we're working together. That's the goal, right?"

Sam nodded, swallowing hard. He was having trouble keeping his

emotions in check. "It seems a long time from now."

"Yeah, if you waste your time. First of all, you are not obligated to

write me back, but I want regular reports. That is, phone calls, as much

as you call your Mom. Got it?"

"Yes, sir." Sam's voice caught, his smile wavering.

"I'm no stinking sir to you, understood, Sam?"

Leaning over, Sam wrapped Al in a huge bear hug. Gingerly, not used

to the gesture from anyone, he pulled Sam close. There was not enough

time to say everything, and the engines of the plane were starting up.

Reluctantly, Al pulled away from the embrace. Tears were coursing freely

down the other man's face, and Al was hard pressed to keep himself from

doing the same. "You'd better call me, kid, or I'll kick your butt - hear

me?"

"Every week." He grasped Al's shoulder as he turned to leave. "You

call me when you arrive in Texas, okay?"

Something told Al that it was very important, that he call when he

landed. "No problem." Easing out of Sam's grasp, he headed towards the

waiting airplane.

As the craft left the ground, Al looked out the window. The kid was

still in the spot he'd left him, his eyes glued to his. Al waved and

wasn't surprised when the gesture was returned.

Dear Sam,

God, it's hot down here. I hope you're not blowing your brains out at

Bethesda. I remember those D.C. summers - killers, all of them. We have

to relearn everything down here, and, not bragging, but, hey, I'm the best.

My first shot is next year.

Were you serious when you said your Mom really wanted me to come

to Hawaii? I mean, wouldn't I be some kind of crasher at the family

Christmas or something? Yeah, right, you're probably kicking me mentally,

so I'll go along, just to make you happy. I've got that whole week off, and

you'll be back at M.I.T. just a month or two after that, right?

Listen kid, and read this good - I'm making some good contacts down

here, senators and stuff. Feds. I don't want you messing with these

snakes, and I'll be the one that makes these nozzles realize what a good

risk your project is, when the time comes. Get that degree, Sam.

Were you kidding, or is it for real that you are going on some kind

of archaeological dig next summer? Where? Why? I thought that stuff was

like messing around in graveyards and dirt and stuff. You into that, too?

Yuck.

I'm closing this because the sweat is dripping down my back and some

buddies and I are going into town to pick up chicks. For Real, pal. These

Texas women . . . Well, you know they are pretty damn generous, and the

hospitality . . .

Take care,

Your pal, Al.

December came like a respite from prison. Sam never felt so free in

his life. A week to rest, to be with his family, to eat his mother's cooking

instead of his own, and to discuss the Project with Al. 'The Project' had

been something he'd only dreamed of, the practical 'Beckett' part of his

mind thinking it something out of his reach, until Al had adopted it with

him, and made it real. The idea was barely in the planning stages, with at

least another twenty years to make it real and the 'nozzles', as Al called

them, were already voicing interest.

The two men met in L.A. It was far from a boring flight to Honolulu,

from the scene Al caused at LAX with two women reluctant to let him go,

(which got violent) to his escapades on board with a buxom stewardess

and her equally endowed partner. In between sexual innuendo, they

managed to play catch up on the last two days they hadn't communicated

in some way, either letter or phone. Al was relieved to discover that Sam

didn't notice his nervousness as the plane landed. It would be odd to meet

Sam's mother and Kate, even after the letters they had sent him. All the

words they'd said, how they were looking forward to seeing him. Maybe

he wouldn't fulfill their expectations. They had no idea what Sam had

gotten him through, and he wasn't about to express it.

Mrs. Beckett and Kate were fairly jumping all over Sam the moment he

left the ramp. Al hung back, feeling awkward and out of place, but only

for a moment. With a scream, Katie hurled herself at him, almost knocking

him off his feet. A delighted grin spread across his face as he met gazes

with Sam, who was being firmly held by his mother. Sam winked, giving

him one of those famous wraparound smiles. It appeared that he was a

member of the family, reaffirmed by Mrs. Beckett, releasing Sam, and

gripping his hands like a long lost son.

Katie and Jim's home was lovely, and the holidays were spent

decorating trees, not fir, but potted palm, and baking cookies - something

Al found he had no skill at, but loved the experience. It seemed, too, that

the Becketts and the Bonnics were used to eccentricity, and gamefully

looked on as Sam and Al played with equations and problems far into the

night.

The vacation ended far too soon, and Al returned to Texas, Sam to D.C.,

with M.I.T. around the corner. There was one thing Al seemed to insist on

and Sam followed his advice.

"Don't take unnecessary courses, but have fun with what you do."

By June, Sam had completed half of his degree at M.I.T. and was

determined to finish the rest in a year. He spent the summer with the

head of the physics department, Professor LoNigro, working on the string

theory, fishing, and generally enjoying the great outdoors. LoNigro owned

a cabin and they could work, undisturbed, to their hearts content.

Al was busy that summer planning the final stages of his first space

flight in September. He was too busy to miss Sam very much, or even

think past the next day.

Fall arrived, and with it, school. Advanced chemistry was one of Sam's

'fun' classes and a requirement for his degree. Some of the students

beneath him, most of them seniors, seemed a little jealous of the twenty

year old that could surpass them with little or no effort. The course,

which usually took two semesters, he was completing in less than one.

Maybe it was an accident, or something set up on purpose by one of the

students. The explosion shattered windows for buildings around and left

Sam broken and unconscious.

Al received the news after splash down. It seemed that Sam had made

him his primary guardian in case something unforeseen should happen.

The school was careful to say that Sam requested that his mother and

sister _not_ be informed. When Al entered the hospital, after a harried

and seemingly unending flight, he could see why.

The doctor told him Sam was blind. That he was scared. Al, angry and

demanding, insisted on an investigation into the cause of the explosion and

was reassured by Dr. LoNigro that it was already underway.

It was going to be hard to face Sam now. And he hated hospitals.

Shoving that to the side, he entered Sam's room. He had to be here, he

decided, like he'd been there for him.

"Al?" Sam's face came up, burns and bruises evident, except where his

eyes were bandaged. A forelock of snow white hair among the brown

strayed over his forehead.

"Now how in the hell did you know it was me?"

"The smell - like cigars and High Karate."

"I forgot about that memory of yours." Al sat down in the chair near

the bed. "Your mother is going to kill you, if I don't do it myself."

"She doesn't know, does she?" Alarm filled Sam's voice. "It's too

much for her right now, and with the baby coming . . ."

"As a doctor, I'm sure you know, that your sister is as strong as a

horse. Sam, my friend, you are too old fashioned in your thinking about women.

They are not delicate little Dresden figurines. Wrong, bucko." He placed

a cigar in his mouth, but didn't light it. He needed something for his

shaking hands to toy with. "Take Sonya, for instance. Tough as nails. Only

problem was . . " "Al." Sam's voice was strong, but scared. "What are

the doctors saying? I'm one of their own and they won't talk to me."

"Physician, heal thyself."

"I'm not kidding." Sam was breathing hard, scared because he knew his

friend would tell him the truth.

Shit, honesty time. Al leaned on the bed and took Sam's unbandaged

hand in his. "I don't know, kid. The doctor says . . . maybe."

"That's better than no chance at all."

"Right." Al kept his grip on the hand that was clinging to his like a

lifeline. "Okay," he said brightly. "Two scenarios. One, you're blind for

life and you end up playing piano like Stevie Wonder, making more money

than Midas. Or, then, there's number two; you get your sight back, we get

up, finish school, and on to the Project. Hell, you can do that either

way, standing on your head, too. Satisfied?"

"I feel better, if that's what you mean. Why did it take you so long

to come? I've been here for days."

"Hey, you had LoNigro here, your friends. Buddy, I was up in Skylab.

The Shot, doofus, remember?" Al grinned. "You know, it's kinda hard to

send a telegram into orbit."

"What was it like, Al?" Sam wanted to talk about that now, the space

shot, anything to distract him from the problem at hand, and the blindness

that made him shake inside.

"Dark, kid, except for the Earth. It was huge, and so bright it hurt

to look at it. God, Sam. The blueness, all the clouds - it made you feel

puny. I felt like I could walk out and trot across it, because it looked so real.

It was home, but you couldn't touch it."

Sam let his friend talk, the images filling his mind. He could see

it all, and it comforted him to know that his mind could paint the pictures he

couldn't see - for now.

Al continued to talk, distraction seeming the best route. He couldn't

help but get a lump in his throat when he paused and saw, again, that line

of white in Sam's hair. It'd been bad, and he hadn't been here to stop it.

The hand under his relaxed, and he knew the kid was asleep by his slow,

even breathing.

The doctor - he hadn't caught the name - entered the room as Al

leaned back in the chair. His eyebrows went up as he glanced at his

patient. He gave Al the same surprised look. "How did you manage

that?"

"Manage what?" Al rubbed his eyes. He was getting tired, too.

"He's been awake except for when we brought him in. We've tried a

few things, but he just wouldn't sleep." Turning to leave, he hesitated as

Al cleared his throat.

"Listen, Doc." Al pulled the unlit cigar out of his mouth, holding it

like a prop in his hands. "Is he going to be okay?"

"He had some internal damage, broken ribs. They seem to be knitting.

He's in a lot of pain. We'll know about his eyes in a week. He suffered a

flash burn to his face and we have no way of knowing yet how it affected

his vision."

After the doctor left, Al kept his vigil at Sam's bedside, insisting

that a cot be set up and he stay with him.

Sam's fear grew in the next days, and, soon, no amount of Calavicci

distractions, from pizza, to attractive, shanghaied nurses, kept him from

worrying. As Al pointed out to him, over and over again, he hadn't lost

his brain, or his hands. It was possible for them to carry on with the

Project, but how could he, Sam, leap through time without seeing anything. The

idea of an Observer was born, something to do with holography that Sam

scribbled down on a pad that Al held for him. Of course, Al would be the

Observer, making sure the Rules were followed. What rules, Sam wasn't

quite sure of yet.

A week later, Al watched anxiously as the doctor pulled the bandages

off. He sighed in relief as an absolutely ethereal expression came over

Sam's face.

It was just color and light, and the doctor reassured him that would

pass. His first sight was Al, and some kind of garish tie dye shirt he was

wearing. A beautiful sight.

After completing a few tests, the doctors were convinced that Sam's

eyes would completely recover in a month or two. Without consulting his

friend, Al contacted Mrs. Beckett and made sure his friend was in her

reliable care before he left. Duty called, and NASA was insisting on his

presence immediately.

In the next months, time together became sparse. Letters from Al

were few and far between, as were the phone calls from Sam. Between

School and Space, neither man had a free period to nurture their

friendship to the degree that they would've liked to.

Snow fell outside of Sam's dorm window as he studied, poring over the

typewritten pages Professor LoNigro had asked him to memorize. Just as

he reached the end of the first page, the phone rang. It was Al, had to be

Al.

"Sam, I'm getting married."

Feeling as if he'd just been hit in the face with a pie, Sam gulped

out, "When?"

"I'm in Vegas now. Kid, she's terrific!" Enthusiasm oozed out of the

voice on the other end. "Pretty, smart . . . It's for good this time, no

doubt about it! Can you get down here?"

"I asked 'when', Al. When, as in when are you getting married?" Sam

tried to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. "I'm in the middle of first

semester finals, it's snowing like mad outside - what, two weeks?"

"No . . ." Al was giggling. Giggling? "Actually, it's day after

tomorrow."

Sam had all kinds of questions, but knew the more personal ones had to

wait. Al sounded happy, and that, it seemed, was all that mattered.

"Hey, kid, you're my best man. Don't talk me out of it - you were

first choice. As for those finals - you can breeze through them, no problem.

Right?"

"I guess so, and I wouldn't miss your wedding, Al." Sam felt odd, as

if he were speaking to a stranger. They made all the arrangements, or Al

told Sam what he'd arranged - his flight, his tux size, where, when.

Finally, Sam said goodbye and hung the phone up, wondering why he

didn't share his friend's enthusiasm. Something felt _wrong_.

Eva was all Al said she was, and more. The ceremony was held in a

small chapel off the Strip and Al put the entire wedding party up at the

Sahara. Sam hadn't actually seen his friend for a few months and was

startled how thin he'd become in such a short time. Another alarming

development was his alcohol intake. He was drinking far more than would

be considered healthy.

Sam sat back and watched things objectively. He had to. If he nagged

Al now, it just wouldn't be appropriate or appreciated. Al and Eva

appeared blissful, toasting each other with champagne for the tenth or

fifteenth time. Once again, Sam thought, I'm the only "Baptist" at the

party, sipping his Sprite and trying not to look disapproving.

The bride vanished not long after the toast, and Sam watched Al as he

told dirty stories in a loud voice at the bar. The bride's family seemed

to think her new husband was wonderful. Sam was getting mildly annoyed.

Other than a few words at the airport, and a brief conversation prior to

the ceremony, Al had hardly given him the time of day. There was no friendly

camaraderie, but marriage and commitment would do that.

"And there's Sam Beckett - the original Boy Scout." Al turned on the

barstool as Sam leaned over the counter to order another soft drink.

Sam felt himself redden as he glanced over at his friends face. Al's

eyes were red and bloodshot and he looked as if he were in the mood for a

fight. "What the hell is wrong with you? Sam kept his voice low and

even, trying to keep Al's 'audience' out of listening level. "You've

treated me like a stranger since I arrived."

Al frowned and reached for his glass, recently filled. Before he could

put his hand around it, Sam grasped his wrist tightly. "You've had enough."

"Not nearly, and mind your own business." Al's voice was dangerously

level. He moved to break Sam's grasp and felt the hand tighten a fraction.

The group around them looked very interested in the exchange, and

Sam tightened his expression, releasing his hold on Al. "Congratulations,"

he muttered, turning away.

"You think this wedding is a big joke, don't you buddy?" Al's eyes

blazed. Getting up from the stool he ran at Sam's retreating form.

to be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

Sam faced his friend with a resigned expression, his eyes dark. "I'm

going home, " he stated, keeping his voice quiet. "Back to Cambridge. You

can call me when you crawl out of the bottle you've dived into. We don't

have anything to discuss right now, and I won't talk to you." Taking a

fighting stance, Al swung at Sam's head, missing, seemingly, on purpose.

Then, spinning on his heel, none to steadily, he stormed out of the hotel.

Sam had a brief conversation with Eva's mother before going out to

find Al. What she told him confirmed his fear. He made his way through the

maze of gamblers and wedding guests. Spotting Al by the main entrance,

he managed to make it to him before the older man could run.

The look Al gave him was loathing, and desperate at the same time. He

tore out of the grip Sam had on his arm, and ran out into the bright Vegas

sunlight.

Sam was at his heels. He forced the other man to face him, fairly

snarling, "What the hell has gotten into you, Al?"

Al attempted to go around the taller man, but Sam managed to step in

front of him when they reached the sidewalk, preventing him from moving

farther. "This is crazy," Sam shouted. The sun was setting, but the heat

was intense, even for December. "You are going to listen to me, even if I

have to sit on you."

"I'm listening." The words were spoken with the same flat cadence he'd

used the night he'd lost Beth, but with an underlying darkness.

"You're drinking too much. You don't love Eva, and I can see that -

and I think she can, too. She's left her wedding alone, and is up in your room

crying."

"Sounds like you checked that out."

"If you're trying to accuse me of some kind of impropriety, forget it.

Her mother told me, and she's completely confused, too. Al, I have to leave

for Cambridge, and I damn well won't if you need me here."

"There's nothing wrong!" Al lit a cigar and chomped down on it.

"And, if there was, it's nothing to keep you from leaving."

Sam's tone softened. "You forget, Al. We're in this together. As of

late, I've been busy, you have, too. We should never be too busy to neglect

each other. You never mentioned Eva, by letter or phone, until you called

me with the wedding plans. You may be impulsive, but not this impulsive!

If you loved her . . ."

"This isn't about love." Al's tone was cold as ice, cutting the hot air

that swirled around them. "And, as I said before, it's none of your business!"

"What is it, then?" Sam snapped back. "Good sex? You've been in and

out of relationships more than I've been in class. My God, Al, you don't

go to bed with a woman - or marry them - unless you love them. Right?"

"What would you know about it?" Al was weaving, his eyes narrowing

into slits. "Listen buddy, you get some experience under your belt, pardon

the expression, and I'll listen to you. Until then, you can kindly butt

out."

"I know what's hurting you, Al, and you know it, too. You can't use

Eva as a substitute for something you'll never have again. It isn't fair, not

to you, or her. You'll only hurt each other and end up in divorce court."

"Sam . . ." Al warned.

"You haven't been sober one moment since I've been down here. You

were drunk when you called me two nights ago. You've got this prolonged

leave from NASA, so you could get married, and you're willing to blow it

all on the bottle. God, Al, what's happened to you?"

"Go."

Sam felt pain cut him like a knife. "Can't we just . . .?" "Get out

of here, Sam." Al turned on his heel and walked away, towards the other

surrounding hotels.

Sam left the next morning, never seeing Al again while he was there,

and not knowing how the story turned out. Two weeks later, he received a

short, tersely worded note from Al informing him that he and Eva were in

the process of going on a prolonged Niagara Falls honeymoon and were

very happy. The 'very' was emphasized, as if in defiance of the words Sam

had said to him. Opening one of his books, Sam slipped the note inside.

It proved to be the only communication from Al that he received for months.

After the Las Vegas fiasco, Sam didn't see or hear from Al for six

months. Once in a while Captain Calavicci would come up on some press

release NASA sent out to the UPI wires, but little else. Calling, writing,

and even sending a telegram, gave him no response. It saddened the younger

man to know his friend was not speaking to him and there really was no

reason for it except . . . he'd been right. There were many nights, after

a particularly hard day, that he longed for just a word, and would try

dialing the number again. Al's service would pick up the line, he'd leave a

message, and that, would be that. June arrived. Graduation time, and

still no word from Al. Sam Beckett was the youngest student to ever graduate

from MIT, and, not only that made it an extraordinary event, but he had

perfect grades and three degrees under his belt to boot.

In a last ditch effort to communicate, Sam called Florida, where Al was

now stationed, one more time. He left the message, "I'm graduating!" and

hoped, that this time, there would be an answer.

Kate had just delivered her second child and she and his mother were

unable to attend, except to send good wishes. It seemed that again, he'd

stand alone to receive a degree.

Graduation day arrived, clear and warm. Sam rolled out of the bed,

his face one great frown. Sleep had been long in coming, and now, he'd had

this dream, about the smell of coffee, and some kind of . . ."

"You like it black, or what?"

The voice coming from his kitchen made Sam fall from the bed. He

glanced up from the mound of blankets and sheets to see Al's tight smile

greeting him.

"What the hell are you doing on the floor?"

"And, what the hell are you doing here?" Sam pushed himself up to a

more dignified perch on the bed, trying to straighten out his pajamas that

had, too, become twisted.

"I'm here, okay?" Al's voice was gruff. "You think I'd miss this?"

"I don't know." Sam kept his gaze averted, biting his lower lip. "I

didn't think it meant anything to you, not anymore." His head came up,

chin tilted defiantly. "I've called. Where have you been?"

"If you had really needed me around I'd'a been here." Al kept his

voice and mannerisms cool. "I was. . . busy."

"Right."

"Listen, kid." Al leaned against the doorway, sighing. "I got a

divorce, went to space again, and spent a lot of time at NASA developing some

wonderful stuff I can't talk in my sleep about."

"Divorced."

Al crossed his arms over his chest. "Yes, Eva. And I don't want to

go into the whys or wherefores. She's gone, Sam. I did her an injustice, as

they say in hero books. You were right, I was wrong."

"That doesn't matter." Sam grinned. He knew what coming here had

cost Al. He was actually apologizing by his presence and the younger man

accepted it. "You're here, right? I missed you."

"Yeah, well . . ." Al shrugged. "Same here." he added, his voice

rough.

"Al . . ."

"You'd better get your ass in the shower and dress. You've got to

graduate in a couple of hours." He reached over and affectionately fluffed

Sam's thick hair. "I've got breakfast going, if you can stand my cooking,"

he said, leaving the room. "Hurry it up, or it gets dumped."

A few hours later, Sam Beckett walked across the stage to accept not

only a diploma, but honors, the acceptance of his peers. Red-faced, he

managed to stammer through his prepared speech. The only thing that

kept him from falling completely apart from nervousness was Al's eyes on

him from the 'family' seats. It was the same look his father had given him

during his graduation from high school; partially pride, and a deep

interest in what he had to say, absorbing every word.

The years were a carpet in front of him, that Al and he would walk on.

As the ceremony broke up,students running to parents, relatives, Sam

found himself alone. For just a moment, he wished his mother could've

been there, to see him hold that piece of paper that had cost so much. The

thought fled from his mind when he saw Al walking towards him, gliding

effortlessly through happy families and screaming students.

Suddenly, they were inches apart, and the sound around them seemed

to fade. Without words, Sam pulled his friend close, hugging him tightly

for all he was worth. The return embrace nearly crushed the air out of

Sam's chest.

"You did good, kid." Keeping his hands on the broad shoulders, Al was

hard pressed to keep the emotion out of his voice.

"Don't push me away again, Al," Sam said, his voice pleading. "You're

the only person who understands me."

"Yeah, right, I'm a fucking Mother Cabrini."

"You're not a saint, Al." Sam grinned at him affectionately. "You

just have to realize that I won't leave you either."

"Why do you pick these strange places to have emotional

conversations?" There were dozens of people around them, total chaos. Al

eased out of the hug and lit one of his ever present cigars. "I know you

aren't going anywhere, okay? It looks like you're stuck with me for the

long run, too. I thought you'd kick my butt out of your house this morning

after that shit in Vegas."

"Let's say you and I had a temporary separation and drop it." Sam

threw his right arm over Al's shoulders, still grinning. "We can start on

the Project now. I've got my degree."

"I've got my contacts." Al gazed at the blue sky overhead. It was a

perfect day for beginnings. "Let's get started, kid."

Al returned to Florida to mop up certain objectives at NASA and Sam

used his summer working an archeological dig in Egypt. By fall, both men

had time to sit down and spend the winter working on what they could

present to the government to obtain funding.

Several theories were thrown about between them, mostly of them out

of reality reach now. There was a common thread between their ideas, a

theory on creating perfect holography. It involved viable implementations

for defense, and practical, civilian usage. That would be their start, they

decided, what they would sell to those in charge to obtain funding. A

beginning.

The next ten years were spent in various labs and offices in and around

Washington D.C. They spent most of their time alternately working on the

Project of the moment, and trying to wheedle more money from the men

who kept it tightly clenched between reluctant fingers. Al did most of the

work on the government men, he having more experience than Sam in

dealing with officiousness.

Sam met with more failure than success in the early stages. Holography

was something Al had been working with NASA on, but Sam found he

could easily adapt to the newness of it. Every small breakthrough was a

reason to celebrate. Unfortunately, there were more failures than results.

The government reps were becoming antsy, demanding only success, no

explanations of failure. As the months turned into years, Al found himself

worrying about the younger man. Sam spent every available waking

moment in the lab the Pentagon had given them. Everything there was

state of the art, but it was still a badly lit, musty, damp basement. Al

would return to his government issue apartment and arrive back at work

in the morning to find Sam hunched over the table, working on the same

problem he'd promised to drop the night before.

It was one of those morning in 1985, Al arriving at the 'Star Bright'

Project - Sam's euphemistic name for what was becoming a nightmare.

He entered the basement to find his partner dead asleep, the remnants of

another all night experiment scattered over the table and surrounding

floor.

It was pouring rain out, June colder than it should be, and wetter.

Al shook the water from his coat and hung it up. Coffee was first on the

agenda, and secondly, to get Sam up.

His partner was dead asleep on the old Government issue couch. Fully

clothed, down to shoes, Sam looked deathly uncomfortable, curled onto his

side, snoring loudly. For the millionth time Al noticed that Sam had lost

more weight, and his closed eyes had deep rings under them. This project

was taking a toll on the younger man. Between school, internship, and

more school, not to mention Star Bright, Sam had been working straight

through the last eight years. His only outside interest wasn't exactly

rest or recreation - this tae kwon do stuff, the karate, the ninja exercises

... Al couldn't exactly see how that could be relaxing, but the kid thought it

was.

Wandering over to one of the tables, Al picked up one of the sheets of

paper that littered it. The top page of the scribbled pages read like a

textbook, with the exceptions of 'forget it', 'no way', and other negative

comments scrawled over it in red pen. "Damn it," Al growled softly.

He knew what the problem was. With anything, too much was

overwhelming. Sam had been at this pace, working every day, twelve

hours, or in the scientist's case, twenty-four, for nearly eighteen months.

Every step forward was a step back, to check figures, and why it had

worked. Even Al couldn't seem to break the workaholics cycle, or force

Sam to take a night off. Dragging him home didn't work, nor yelling.

The coffee was ready and Al sipped at his cup. Sam was still fast

asleep, dreaming of electric sheep, or whatever men with a mind like his

dreamt of. "You need a girl, Sam." Al whispered the words. All his

partner did, in answer, was turn over onto his back, one hand thrown over

his eyes. Al slammed the cup on the counter and launched himself at the

couch. Grabbing Sam by the collar, he forcibly pulled him upright. The

green eyes snapped open, frightened and startled out of deep sleep.

Al was nose to nose with Sam. "You're going to burn yourself out," he

said, shouting the words. "You need a night off. A day, a week."

"What brought this on?" Sam tried to pull away from Al's grasp and

found it was a futile gesture. He decided not to fight it. "I was

asleep."

"I'm going to give you a little dose of reality, partner." Al released

Sam from his hold and turned away to pace the room. "You missed Christmas

last year. And the year before that. Your mother is calling me to get you

to call her. You don't return _my_ messages, let alone hers. The project

is all, and it's taken over every ounce of everything you've got. Just

because some buttheads in charge of funding this thing say you've got a deadline

doesn't mean they'll hold to that. It's not the way the government works.

You give a _little_, Sam, then they give a little."

Sam rubbed his eyes and tried to light his mental pilot light. By the

time on the clock he'd only gotten something like one hour of sleep.

"Could I have a cup of coffee?"

"When was the last time you ate?" Al asked, making no move toward

the coffee machine.

"Since when did you become my mother?" Sam snapped. Frayed

nerves were on edge, and he was getting pissed off at Al.

"Since we started this whole thing." Al lit a cigar, in outright defiance

of Sam's rules. "And don't forget those times you 'mom' me. I haven't had a

woman since . . ."

"That's not my problem, Al."

"Bullshit. And that's another thing. You've been getting calls from

this beautiful brunette the last two weeks. Every time I get home she's taped

another message on the door, or waiting in the parking lot. Nice girl,

about your age. She's after you, could care less about me, wants on the Project.

That's purely up to you, but she's got smarts, Sam. You've got to stop

working so hard, hire some people like her, and some techs. I'll get the

money out of those nozzles if I have to shake it out of them. This is too

big. You'll kill yourself before you accept help, won't you?"

"I'm not interested in suicide." Sam crossed his arms over his chest.

The basement wasn't exactly warm and he'd gotten a chill sleeping in his t-

shirt and slacks. "It's just that, well, it's our Project. If we hire

techs, it will . . ."

"Don't talk me out of this, kid. You need the help. There's plenty of

people willing to set up shop here and think of the time you'll have to do

paperwork, the math, the million little things you bitch about not having

time to do now." He frowned. Sam was shivering, cold. Grabbing a

sweater from where it had fallen the night before, Al tossed it at the man

on the couch. "Put that on and I'll get you a cup of coffee. Then, we'll

talk. You'll listen, because we've got a bunch of things to discuss."

After the coffee pot had been drained, Al managed to convince Sam

that hiring assistants would be a great idea. With a great deal of iron

man maneuvering, he pulled Sam from the basement and called a halt to work,

for now.

Once Sam was comfortably settled in his own bed, Al ventured out into

the D.C. monsoon to confront their financiers with this new curve. Worry

accompanied him, because Sam was ill. Not that the kid couldn't handle a

cold, he was a big boy. What bothered him was that Sam's physical,

rundown condition might make matters worse if the 'cold' should turn for

the worse and become the flu.

After a good dose of cough medicine, Sam was blissfully asleep in a

cozy tunnel of blankets Al had piled over him. It was the persistent knocking

at the door that woke him up.

Jerking on his robe, he pattered over the hardwood floors to the door.

He'd get rid of whoever it was, and back to lullaby land. No problem.

Opening the door, he stared wordlessly at what was on the other side.

She was lovely, dark brown hair cascading over her shoulders. Her cheeks

were pink from the chill outside, her smile hesitant but nice. Very nice.

"My name is Donna Elesee," she said. "Are you Doctor Beckett?"

Al returned later to find his roommate under his blankets, Donna Elesee

sitting on the edge of the bed scribbling some figures on a pad. Pages

from the notebook were strewn over the bed and on the floor, Sam scribbling

things down as fast as she was.

"Can't leave you alone for a minute."

Sam glanced up at his friend and smiled. "Did we get it?"

"Have I let you down before?" He looked over to Donna, who seemed as

glad to see him as Sam was. "I see you've found Dr. Beckett."

"He's not feeling well," she said, her voice a touch concerned. "I

couldn't find anything resembling real food in your kitchen, so I ordered

him some soup from a Chinese delivery place."

"It was great, Al.' Sam's voice had taken on that excited tone.

"There's some left, if . . ."

"Naw." Al picked up one of the papers at Sam's knee and frowned.

"She figured out the stabilizing problem?"

"You were right, Al." Sam leaned against the pillows. "We need some

fresh blood. I had it all wrong and wasn't paying attention to simplifying.

With Donna, and two or three other people we can get our holography

program on the road in a few months."

"Great, kid, just great." Al glanced over at the girl. "You want to

ride this white elephant along with us?"

"I wouldn't call Dr. Beckett's work a white elephant, Dr. Calavicci."

"Can't you take a joke?"

"She's interested in time travel, Al. We could bring her on the

Project when we reach that point."

Al started to say something else and stopped. He could see the

enthusiasm on Sam's face and the look on Donna's. Something had

happened here, like it had between him and Beth. He had to allow it to

happen, not deflect it. "Are you feeling okay?" the older man asked,

sounding like a concerned parent.

"Lousy," Sam grinned, looking at Donna. "I think I'll manage,

though."

"Well . . .I think I'll go to the grocery store and get a few things,

make a little dinner for the three of us when I get home." Al backed

towards the bedroom doorway as he spoke.

"Thanks, Al." Sam was preoccupied, but he gave his friend a grateful

look. Donna glanced up from the paper she was working on and looked

back at Al. "Will you work with us when you come home, Dr. Calavicci?"

"Oh, I wouldn't miss it, Donna." He turned to leave, hesitated, and

turned back. "The kid is Sam, I'm Al, okay?"

She smiled, making her whole face light up. A nice girl, Al thought,

heading back into the storm.

Sam didn't notice the passage of time while he worked over the

problems with Donna. She was so excited about everything he did, the

time travel project, the holograms . . . The phone rang four times before

either one of them noticed it.

"Al?" Sam asked, frowning. Something was wrong.

"I just got fired. Star Bright is over."

Sam felt the world crumble around him. "What the hell happened? I

thought you were going to the store. Just the store, Al."

"I ran into Wright's secretary. Little number named Jackie, pretty as

a picture. I've been trying to pick her up for . . ."

"_Al_." Sam glanced at Donna for a moment. She looked curious and

concerned. "She gave you some inside information, am I right?"

"You could say that." The rain was pouring down again, filling his

shoes with ice water. "After I left that nozzle's office, he went behind

my back and fired me. According to Jackie, he didn't like my attitude. They

want you, but Star Bright is over - and me with it."

"Where are you?" Sam asked anxiously, thinking back to another night

not so many years before.

"I'm down here at the Seven Eleven and I'm coming home soon. Don't

worry. I just . . . want to be alone for a while, okay?"

The phone went dead. For a second, Sam allowed it to all sink in.

First of all, he certainly wouldn't work on any project without Al, and he

intended to make that perfectly clear to the Pentagon. Secondly, they'd

know he was quitting and to hell with any future plans they'd made for his

mind.

Reaching for his seldom used address book, he looked up the number

he'd been given to call if there was a problem. Marvin Wright was going to

get an earful tonight.

By the time Sam got off the phone, Al was not only rehired, but Star

Bright was saved - not in the same form or location, but as a project that

would eventually work into something else. It was obvious, that with

Donna's help, he could mop up the hologram experiments in a few more

months - but he needed Al. He'd made that abundantly clear to Wright,

and anyone else who would listen.

For the two hours Sam had been on the phone, Donna had watched him.

She never paid much attention to men, or people in general. To her, life

was science, and study. And her mother. Dr. Beckett had spoken to the

man at the Pentagon with compassion and feeling when he'd begged for

Al's position. She could tell there was a closeness between the two men,

as if they were blood kin.

"You really love him, don't you?"

Sam glanced up at her, almost forgetting that she'd been there the

whole time. "I guess I do." He glanced at the alarm clock next to the bed

and frowned. "He's been gone too long. I've got to go find him."

"You're sick." She gestured at the window, sheeted with rain. "It's

awful out there. I'll go with you and . . ."

"No!" Sam winced. The word had come out the wrong way. "I'm sorry.

You need to stay here. I know where he hangs out when he's like this. If

he comes home and finds an empty apartment he'll be real upset."

"He'll be more upset if you die of pneumonia." She bit her lip as Sam

got up from the bed and went to the bathroom to change clothes.

Dulles International Airport - a good place to lose yourself, Al thought

to himself. He glanced through the series of flight departures on the big

screen. There was one place he could go - to think this through, that the

kid wouldn't follow him to. God, he couldn't drag him down with him.

He approached the ticket desk, giving the blond woman behind it a

characteristic leer. "Las Vegas - next flight." He thought for moment,

then added, "One way, babe."

Hours passed. Donna was beginning to get worried about Sam. He'd

been gone for ages, no phone call, nothing to let her know he was alive, or

if he'd found Al. At the sound of the front door opening, she launched

herself off the couch and turned to meet him.

Sam was blowing his nose with a handkerchief and looking

resoundingly miserable. The cold and wet, with the wind gusting at about

fifty miles per hour had done nothing to improve his health.

"Did you find him?"

"He's vanished." He slumped into a chair, wishing he could breathe

properly, or think. "I checked every dive he's usually in, the 7-11, even

the arcades. Nothing. It's as if he left town."

"It's almost midnight. Where could he be?" Donna went over and

helped Sam out of his wet coat. "You look terrible."

"I feel awful." His tone was kind, smiling at her concern. "It's nice

of you to stick around like this, first night meeting me and with all this

happening."

"You're nice yourself." Her eyes widened at the blush that spread

over the physicist's face. He seemed so modest, and old fashioned that she

wanted to hug him.

"Uh, Donna . . ." Sam shook his head as he got up and walked to the

kitchen to make some tea. "We have to think. You've met Al, you might

know. My head is so full of cotton that I can barely move. Give me some

clues, what you think he might have done."

"Does he have a family?"

Sam turned the flame on under the kettle. "No," he said after a

moment. "Just me."

"Where does he usually go when he wants to run away - outside of

D.C.?"

"He said he wasn't doing that this time. That he'd come home, soon."

Scooting on a stool by the kitchen bar, she cupped her chin in her

hands, facing Sam. "I have a degree in Psych, also. I did my research

before asking to join your project. Al was a POW. Now, that he's free, he's

going to run away from bad situations, to think them out. He does that

because he can leave - he's not confined anymore."

That makes sense, Sam thought. "Well, he runs to . . . Vegas."

"Call the airport." She pushed the phone within Sam's reach.

It didn't take long to trace down Al. He'd used his Master Charge for

the flight, almost as if he'd wanted to be found. Sam made arrangements

to take the next flight, and, at her insistence, Donna was to accompany

him.

The cab arrived and they hurried on their way with a quick stop at

Donna's to pick up a few things. She was efficient as well as smart. It

took her five minutes to hurtle down her stairs and reenter the cab, bag packed.

"Thanks for coming, Donna." Sam blew his nose for the umpteenth time.

"You didn't have to."

"I insisted." She pulled a box of cold pills out of her bag and

handed it to him. "Someone has to take care of you, until we find Al."

"He's a lot like a father, or a real eccentric uncle, you know, the

embarrassment of the family, wears a lamp shade at parties, that sort of

thing." The cab started up and sped off to the airport. "I couldn't do

anything without him. He scares me when he acts this way." Donna's face

became suddenly distant. "I once knew someone like him."

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter. What about your family? Someone like you must

have a really firm foundation."

"Well, Mom and my sister Kate are living pretty far away, so Al is it

as far as family goes. I need him, he's there. Sometimes I take him for

granted, and he does the same to me. Tonight, well, you don't understand

why he ran like he did. He can't take rejection, of any kind. It hurts

him, Donna. He's had a pretty . . . rough life. People have walked all over

him for years, taking him for granted. I'm going to find him in Vegas because

he has to realize I care for him, and that he doesn't have to run away

again. He places too much stock in me, damn it."

"You're intuitive and generous." Donna's eyes were on the car window,

watching the rain blow down. It was hard to look at Sam Beckett's eyes, so

full of emotion. She didn't want to fall in love with that look, or with

the man. "You care."

"What's wrong?" Touching her arm made her face turn to his.

Frowning, he reached up to touch her cheek. "You're crying."

She clenched her teeth against her emotions. "My father ran away, and

I never saw him again." She pulled away from Sam's touch.

"I'm sorry." She looked vulnerable, but fighting against being near

him. "Would it help to talk about it?"

"I was six. My mother tells me all men leave you, never come back. I

believe it." Her voice had calmed, the tears drying.

"You never saw him again?"

"No."

"And now, you're going to Vegas with me, to find a man who's running

from his life. Why?"

A surprised look flashed across her face at the question. "You're sick

- and I know Vegas - I grew up there."

"That's not an answer - at least, not the answer I wanted." Sam

reached over and gripped one of the hands she held in her lap. "We jus

met. I feel like I've known you for years."

She knew instinctively it wasn't a line, that this man was falling in

love with her. How could she tell him she felt the same, that he was what she'd

dreamed of in someone to share her life and career with?

The silence hung over them the remainder of the cab ride. Sam found

himself deep in thought, worried about Al, wondering where they could

start looking when they reached the City of Sin. As they turned into

Dulles, he glanced over at Donna. She was staring at him, concerned about

the too serious look on his face. Without thinking, he took her hand and

held it. She didn't pull away, and gave him a squeeze in return.

Sam insisted on paying for Donna's ticket, even though she said she

had money of her own. It was the least he could do, flying to Las Vegas in the

dead of night. He'd only been there the one time and Donna knew the lay

of the land. Somehow they would find one lost Calavicci and bring him

home.

As the plane took off, Sam felt as though his head would burst.

Nausea gripped his stomach as they climbed through the turbulent air. The

touch of Donna's hand on his calmed his nerves somewhat. "I hope to God he

isn't getting married again," he muttered.

Donna gave him a confused look and touched his forehead. "You're

burning up." Reaching with her free hand, she rang for the stewardess and

ordered a glass of ice water and aspirin. When it arrived, she made Sam

take it and lean his seat back so he could rest.

"I. .don't . . sleep . . well . . on airplanes. . .," he said, his

eyes beginning to close.

Watching him as he fell asleep, Donna felt a tug of compassion. Sam

looked so vulnerable. His insistence on going to find Al, taking this trip

when he was so sick. Maybe he wasn't like other men. She leaned back in

her seat, still keeping her grip on his hand. Moving to a more comfortable

position, Sam rested his head on her shoulder. For a moment, she felt like

retreating from his touch, but it felt so natural, having him that close, that

she allowed the contact. The lights dimmed in the aircraft as she, too,

fell asleep.

It was daylight when they arrived in Vegas. Renting a car, they headed

towards the Strip, Donna doing the driving. Sam was still feverish, and

becoming more ill every moment.

"I really think we should check in to a hotel so you can rest."

Anxiously, she glanced at his pale, but determined face, realizing she

couldn't argue with him. "At least see a doctor."

"I am a doctor." Sam's voice was hoarse, his throat raw and sore. "I've

probably got an upper respiratory infection, on top of the cold and flu.

If I'm lucky I'll make it without contracting pneumonia."

She could see his eyes were fire bright with fever. "I don't know... "

she began uncertainly.

"I've got to find Al." Everything physical seemed to be shutting down,

including his breathing. His chest was so tight it hurt. "His favorite

hotel is something tacky - he told me once - the Flamingo."

"It's not so bad. Maybe we'll be lucky the first try." The casinos

were on the street ahead of them, their flashing signs strange in the early

morning air.

"If he isn't there, we'll try the Sahara." Focusing on the road and

the buildings around them seemed to keep his head from spinning. He felt

awful, but it couldn't be helped, not right now. When he found Al Calavicci

he'd kill him, then take a whole bottle of NyQuil and go to bed for a

week."

They had no luck at the Flamingo, so it was on to the Sahara. The

casino wasn't very big, and it didn't take Sam very long to see the small,

dark figure hunched over the slot machine.

He could smell the alcohol before he was within three steps of Al.

From the way he was weaving on the stool he'd been at the bottle for a few

hours now. Probably from the moment he'd arrived here. Vegas was the

older man's playground; a place to be bad, without anyone finding out.

"I want to talk to him alone." Sam gave Donna a quick hug, smiling at

her concern. "Why don't you go to the bar and order me a hot tea, maybe

get a room for . . . us." He reddened at the words. "God, I'm sorry - I

didn't mean . . ."

"I'll get _us_ a room. All three of us." Donna turned back and walked

towards registration. It was going to be the three of them, and she had to

remember that, and not become a wedge between Sam and Al. That was

important, she thought. It would be 'we three' from her on out, and that

was the way it was.

Al was seemingly unaware of Sam's presence. Standing directly behind

him, Sam cleared his throat. When that didn't draw a reaction from the

older man, he leaned over and said, "Having any luck?"

to be continued...


	4. Chapter 4

"What the hell are you doing here?" Al spun on him, almost falling off

the stool. His eyes widened as he realized Sam was in no condition to be

walking, let alone standing. "You look terrible."

"Not half as bad as you're going to feel when I'm finished. You ran

away, Al." Sam's voice was controlled but shaking. "You promised me once

you'd never do that again. I needed you."

"Great, a guilt trip. Don't do that, Sam!" Al snapped. "I don't want

to be held responsible for you, too. Christ, those nozzles at the

Pentagon, and Wright..."

"Screw Wright."

"I wouldn't want to."

Sam smacked the cigar out of Al's fingers before he could light it.

"I'm speaking to you and I don't want to do it in front of a haze of cigar

smoke. You're drunk."

"No kiddin'." Al glanced at the fallen stogie and decided to let it

go. "You're a genius."

"I know what they said, Al." Sam reached over and gripped his

friend's shoulders. "They told you that you were washed up, and that you'd

never succeed at anything you could do." Face covered with perspiration

from the fever, it took every ounce of available energy he had left to

speak to Al. "I told them they'd lose me if you were fired. Star Bright,

as a project, is finished. I cancelled it myself. They couldn't shut me

down, so I quit. When they asked me what I wanted to do, I told them I had

a theory on time travel, using holography. It was nuts, but a link. They

bought it. I refused to work for them again unless they reinstated you as

head of project management. Wright was spitting nails, but I made him see

our way."

"You did that for me, kid?" As drunk as he was, Al was beginning

to understand.

"I did it for _us_." His vision was beginning to blur, and his

grip on Al's shoulders was more for support than reassurance. "We come as

a team, or not at all."

"You could've lost everything."

"I'd lose everything," Sam said, forcing his focus to meet Al's

eyes. "If I lost you."

The confusion and anger left Al's expression, the coldness leaving

his body with Sam's words. "God, you really mean that, don' t you?"

"With all my heart." Sam reached up and touched his friends face,

not caring who saw the gesture. "We finally have our time travel project,

Al. Wright himself said if it wasn't for you, and the way you handle

things, he'd never have considered it. He actually said he was wrong

firing you like he did. I...I told him..." He felt his body collapse as

Al caught him. "Al," he grinned, as his friend lowered him to the floor.

"I feel awful."

Al touched Sam's forehead and frowned. "You're burning up. What

did you think you were doing, flying with a temperature? Alone, on the

plane-how did you make it here?"

"I brought him." Donna arrived, followed by the in-house doctor.

"I was worried about you, too."

A quick retort was rapidly swallowed when Al saw the true concern

in Donna's eyes. "I'll be all right thanks to him."

Sam's eyes went wide as the doctor inserted a thermometer between

his lips. "How'd I get on the floor?" he asked, his voice garbled by the

instrument in his mouth.

Al glanced conspiratorially at Donna. It seemed he finally had

someone to help him handle Sam. Thank God. "You passed out," he answered,

kneeling by his friend.

The doctor removed the thermometer and frowned as he held it up to

the light. "102. This man should be in a hospital."

"No kidding," Al and Donna said simultaneously. They looked at

each other and grinned.

"No way." Sam eased himself up from the floor, gripping his two

friends for support.

"We have a room," Donna said, almost falling under Sam's weight.

"You're going to bed and let the doctor give you a thorough going over."

"Right-if I have to hold you down myself," Al added, pulling Sam's

arm around his shoulders.

It took the combined efforts of Donna, Al and the doctor to take

Samup the hall and to their room. It was air conditioned and clean. After

checking his patient over, the doctor prescribed an antibiotic and ordered

it from the pharmacy to be delivered to the hotel immediately. With a

reluctant shake of his head, unable to convince Sam to go to a hospital, he

left the three people to their own resources.

Sam fell asleep almost immediately after the doctor left. Al

slumped in a chair near his bed, his tired gaze on his friend.

"He really cares about you." Donna leaned on the back of the chair

Al was sitting in. "I couldn't talk him out of coming out here."

"It doesn't sound like you tried too hard." Al glanced back at the

young woman. "You're a pretty nice person to have around."

"I'm glad you feel that way, Al. I was mad at you, the way you

left him like that. He was so scared for you. Sam tried hard to not let

on, but he was pretty shaken up. I couldn't figure out why he'd be so

worried about a grown man..."

"I pulled some real wing dings on him before." Al pushed back the

hat he was wearing, letting it drop to the floor. He was far too weary to

pick it back up. "I would've come back. Maybe not for a long time,

but..." He glanced over his shoulder at her for a moment, then returned

his gaze to Sam. "It's damned strange having someone care about you this

much. Do you know what that's like?"

"No."

The answer made Al frown. Here was this very attractive woman, who

could have her pick of any man, yet seemingly knew nothing about friendship

or love. "You will understand when you get to know Sam. He's one of the

good guys. There's not a lot of them around."

"I'm beginning to believe that." Her voice held just the slightest

touch of faith, as if it was hard for her to have confidence in anyone.

"He likes you."

"Oh?" She leaned back on the empty bed. "And how do you know

that?"

"He wouldn't have trusted you to take him to Vegas if he didn't."

Al turned the chair around to face her. "I don't want you taking this

wrong, but I did some checking on you." He waved off the look that crossed

her face, a mixture of anger and betrayal. "I'd do it for anyone we

considered taking in on the Project. _Anyone_. Understood?"

"Yes." Her annoyance faded. "What did you find out?"

"Nothing bad, not a thing. You graduated from Lawrence College

with a doctorate in quantum physics, summa cum Latin thingamajig. Very

impressive. You've done field work for major companies since then but your

real interest is in time travel. I think you'll get your wish on that

one."

"Sam didn't tell me that they accepted the time project." Her

smile was warm. "I overheard part of your conversation when I was coming

back to the casino with the doctor. I was afraid he was going to pass out,

and as things happened..."

"Good job-I'd 'a done it myself, but I had my hands full." He

wanted a cigar badly, but didn't think it would be good for Sam if he lit

up in the room. His breathing was labored enough. "You were engaged once,

right?"

She sat up from her position on the bed, her cheeks flaming with

anger. "That's none of your business," she said sharply.

"I made it my business. No offense, but I could see you and Sam

had chemistry together before you even met him, okay?"

"No, it's not okay. I can understand you investigating my academic

record, and work experience, but my private life..."

"Donna." Al's gaze was gentle, his face set in passive, tired

lines. "I want to be your friend, too. You broke off your engagement to

this nozzle. Why?"

"What do you care? You seem to think I..." She shook her head

abruptly. "I don't know what you think, except that you don't want Sam

hurt. He's so much more different than Jerry was... Maybe..."

"Sam is very sensitive. You could have a good future with him, and

he with you." Al sighed, changing his track of conversation. "Sam hasn't

dated a girl as long as I've known him and he's not gay either. All his

life, with the exception of someone named Nicole and a cheerleader, he's

been pretty much dedicated to his profession. When I came home last night

and saw the electricity between you two, I felt pretty good. You can give

him back some of those lost years when he didn't have any fun, burying his

nose in books. God, that pissed me off." He rose from the chair,

retrieving his hat, and clapping it on his head.

"Are you leaving?"

"Not for long. I have to go to the desk and get his prescription

then find all of us some breakfast." He pulled his fedora over one eye.

"If he wakes up, tell him I'm out picking up broads. He'll know everything

is fine then."

Donna watched as Al closed the door behind him. The room suddenly

became very quiet, the sound of Sam's breathing and the low whir of the air

conditioner the only noise. She sighed, getting up from the bed.

Sam had pulled some of the covers away and the room wasn't exactly

warm. She'd turn the air conditioning off, but the the temperature would

go up and everyone would be uncomfortable.

She went over to Sam and pulled the blankets up over his shoulders.

Her fingers moved up to touch the hair that staryed over his forehead.

There was one bunch of strands, pure white. Sam's hair was soft and thick,

composed of many layers. She bent down and kissed his forehead, as her

mother used to do when she was ill to check her temperature. His skin was

still quite warm to the touch. She sat down next to him, her arm straying

over his waist to stroke his back. It felt so natural, just sitting here

with him, feeling close to someone again."

Al returned an hour later. His expression softened as he glanced

at the two sleeping in the bed together. Donna was laying on top of the

blankets, wearing pajamas. Plainly exhausted, she was curled in spoon

fashion against Sam's back, her arms holding him close.

Al loosened his clothes and fell back on the other bed. It didn't

look like a half bad idea, this sleep thing.

After Sam recovered, Al suggested that they check out the sight

Wright had chose for the Project. It was within a day's drive from

Vegas-New Mexico.

Obtaining the proper clearance for the site from D.C. was simple.

They started on the trip early in the morning and the heat wasn't quite as

intense as they thought it might be as they drove through the desert.

When they reached their destination, Sam felt his stomach drop as

he read the sign they passed at the entrance. "Are you sure this is

right?"

Al's face remained neutral, as if he drove onto missle ranges every

day. The amused glint in his eyes was hidden by sunglasses. "White Sands,

Sam. I don't think they'll shoot at us-much."

The guard gave them instructions on which roads to take to arrive

at the location Wright had mentioned. After another hour over rough

terrain, they found the site.

Getting out of the car, Sam glanced over the sun-swept area.

Trinity, Al had called it. The first atomic detonation had occured here in

1945. Blasted and dead, the landscape was anything but pretty. There was

something about the remote wilderness that made him pause.

Grinning, Al watched the expression on his friend's face. The sun

was killer hot, but it wasn't a mirage that Sam was happy. Somehow he knew

the the physicist would find his element here, in the New Mexico desert.

He felt Donna squeeze his hand for a moment before she joined Sam.

"It's hot." Sam pulled Donna close. His eyes traversed from

horizon to horizon. "There's plenty of room for the lab. Did Wright

mention some kind of underground cavern...?"

"Yup." Al moved to stand next to the couple. "Right under where

we're standing. We can use that for the Imaging Chamber, once we figure

out the nuts and bolts. As for the rest of it..." Al shrugged. "The

moment Wright hears yea or nay from us, it goes up. We hire techs, set up

and outline of the building and facilities and we're set."

"And air conditioning," Sam added. He could see it now. The main

building could go up to their left, where there was flat land now and

scrub. Parking lot, some lighting. They'd have to have their own source

for electricity, or find an alternate that wasn't far away.

"It's beautiful," Donna said, looking up at Sam. "I love it here.

So wild and open. No one around for miles and miles."

"Except snakes and scorpions." Al glanced at his watch. "I got us

reservations at a hotel in Alamogordo." From the look the other two were

passing between them, it was obvious neither had heard a word he'd said.

"Excuse me?"

Sam smiled over at his partner, raising his eyebrows in question.

"I have a, uh, friend in town-Ruthie. She's a peach. I sort of

made arrangements to meet her so we can do the town tonight. Do you mind?"

"Of course not," Sam said, a little too quickly. Donna just

laughed. It was so easy to be happy right now.

"Good. Well." Al felt uncomfortable and wanted to get us into

town and leave these two alone. He was beginning to feel like a third

wheel. "We can come back here tomorrow or the next day, when Wright sends

the troops in. Until then, we're at liberty."

"I haven't even taken you out to dinner yet," Sam said, looking

down at Donna.

"I know this great place in Taos," Donna replied as they followed

Al back to the car. "The Hacienda. I know the way-it's only another

couple of hours from here."

"And I'm renting you both a car." Al jumped into the driver's seat

as the two others got in. "My treat-actually our expense account can

handle it. If I know Sam he'll want to come out here in the middle of the

night and you'll willingly follow. Me, I've got other plans after the sun

goes down, if you know what I mean."

The trip to Taos and the dinner were intimate. Over candlelight,

tacos, and enchiladas, neither Donna nor Sam paid much attention to the

atmosphere.

The return trip to Alamogordo was charged with an intensity neither

had felt before. They arrived at the hotel and found Al had booked them a

separate and private room. He'd left them a note, explaining that he and

Ruthie had run off to Santa Fe to get hitched.

Sam blanched for a moment, then realized Ruthie had been more than

a one night stand or a casual affair for Al. His friend had spoken of her

often in Washington, that he wished he could spend more time with her.

Last year, their long distance bill had gone up, most of the calls, Sam

remembered, to New Mexico. Perhaps it hadn't been coincidence that the site

choice had been here, but Sam decided nt to question fate.

Donna smiled as she read Al's note. Their brief meeting with

Ruthie that afternoon had been fun. She was so full of life and goofiness,

like Al, but with a practicality that would contrast nicely with his

eccentricity.

As they entered their room, the look exchanged between the couple

answered whatever question they'd have about what would happen next.

Without words, they undressed each other and went to bed.

After a few days, Al and Ruthie returned to Alamogordo and made

arrangements to have his and Sam's possesions shipped post haste. Ruthie

took everyone on a shopping trip to remember, all new clothes. She was

worth a bundle, Al insisted on pointing out, to Ruthie's chagrin. Sam

could tell that wasn't why he married her.

They found a four bedroom housethat was within their means to rent

temporarily until the Project was completed. The government men arrived

and ground-breaking had began.

Al could sense that something was up when Sam asked to speak to him

privately.

"I"m getting married to Donna." Sam looked for a reaction from Al,

frowning when he didn't see the expected surprised expression cross his

face.

"That's the news?" Al grinned, handing Sam a cigar. "Take it, kid

and congratulations. Ruthie and me, we've been talking. You and her were

meant for each other. When did you come to this momentous decision?"

"The night we went to Taos." Sam looked across the yard where the

womanfolk were setting up the barbeque. "I love you, Al."

"You'll get married once, Sam. The one that lasts." Al looked

over at his wife. She wasn't what you'd call beautiful, but her long dark

hair framed a wonderful face- that face of a thousand expressions. "I

know you might have thought I was kind of impetuous, marrying Ruthie like I

did, but she's real special, too. I finally found someone who can fight

back, and fights dirty. She doesn't give up, not even when I'm in a mood."

"You have some moods, Al."

"Shut up, smart mouth." His dark eyes were soft. "I'm glad for

you, kid."

"Will you be my best man?"

"What a stupid question!"

Donna spent a day with Ruthie, finding the right place for the

wedding. She chose Old Mission Chapel, which was within shouting distance

of the Project site.

Nerves on edge, as they had been since she and Sam had decided to

get married, she walked into the landmark with Ruthie and the minister. It

was small, but served its purpose.

"You can have flowers brought in, anything you want, honey."

Ruthie's New York accent was warm and motherly. "It's a very romantic

place, and Father Santos is a personal friend. You trust me?"

"Of course, Ruthie." Donna shoved her nervousness to the back of

her mind. Wedding jitters, she thought, dismissing it instantly. "It'll

be perfect, and I'm sure Sam will think the same."

The morning of the wedding, Al picked up Katie, her husband Jim,

and Mrs. Beckett from the airport, and did all the running around that

needed to be done at the last minute. He was still grouching about not

being able to hold a bachelor party the night before - Sam had strictly

forbidden it, no kidding around.

His friend was edgy to the point of insanity. Nothing looked

right, or worked correctly. Al shoved Mrs. Beckett in Sam's room and

closed the door. It seemed to have the desired effect. Calmer, and a bit

less crazy, Sam emerged with his mother on his arm and allowed Al to drive

him to the church. He gave his bride-to-be one last quick kiss before he

entered the car and Al drove him away.

After they left, Donna went to the bedroom to change into her dress

for the wedding. Her mother was sitting on the bed, next to the dress she

and Ruthie had just put the finishing touches on the night before. It was

white lawn, cut low, with small white roses sewn on by hand. A beautiful

gown.

"You'll look pretty, honey." Her face was tired but pleased.

"Do you think I'm doing the right thing?" Donna felt the

nervousness again, the same sensation that had kept her from touching Sam

the last few days. "He's such a good person and I think I love him."

"You think?" Her mother sighed. "Does he love you?"

"Well, yes, of course. He loves everybody. And there's the

Project..." That same niggling worry. "Maybe he'll grow to love that

more than me-he'll be there all the time..."

"It's different, dear, when you will be working with him."

"I'm afraid, Mom." She bit her lower lip. "What if he forgets I'm

there? What if I hold him too close and want every waking moment and can't

have it? God..." She glanced at the dress and out the window. Everyone

was on their way to the chapel.

"I can't do it." The ball of fear that had formed in her stomach

exploded. She burst into tears, running from the room.

The hot wind blew off the desert, kicking up dirt and dust. Sam

Beckett waited patiently on the steps of the old church, his eyes squinting

in the bright sunlight for any sign of Donna's arrival.

Al was at his shoulder. "I just tried calling home again. No

answer." He looked up at his friend's concerned face. "Ruthie is going to

drive over quick and check to make sure they left."

"She's two hours late. Two hours." Sam hit the side of the church

with his fist. "She's been avoiding me the last few days, distancing me.

What if..."

"Remember what I said about 'what if' questions, Sam." Al sat down

on the steps and Sam joined him. Screw the tux. "She probably had a case

of nerves, that's all. Or maybe they had a flat. That happens."

Another hour passed. The guests were leaving for hotel rooms and

anyplace with air conditioning. Katie and Jim decided to return to

Alamogordo with Mrs. Beckett and wait for word there. They each gave Sam a

sad hug before driving away.

It was beginning to get dark and Sam still sat on the steps of the

church, Al joining him after he'd answered a phone call.

"Gets cold out here in the desert."

Sam frowned. "What'd you say?"

"Says it gets cold. Ruthie called."

"And?"

Al turned to face the younger man by his side. This was going to

be tough. "Donna left, Sam. There was a note. Said she couldn't go

through with it, sorry, all that jazz."

"No." Sam buried his face in his hands. "How could he hurt her

like this?" The words were pain, ripped from his soul.

"Who, Sam?"

"Her father." In the growing darkness, Al could see the pain

etched on Sam's face, hear it in each tortured syllable. "He stole her

only chance at happiness. She has nothing now."

"Well you've got me and Ruthie. And the Project. Don't forget

that. Donna loved you, Sam."

"I'm not mad at her, Al." Sam felt the tears come and he clung to

Al as he cried. She'd been so good with him, so perfect. Their bodies

matched, each touch, each look, as if they'd known each other for years.

Now it was wrenched away, by a man who had no idea what his selfishness had

cost. Not only had he taken love away from Donna by his actions, but he'd

taken her life, too.

The next years were filled with work. After the wedding fiasco

Sam pushed himself to his very limits, not allowing a day to pass without

twenty hours of labor. He poured concrete with the workmen, set up electronic

equipment, and helped Al hire the techs they'd need for the Project.

Applicants were not hard to come by. Many came from California,

the Silicon Valley turning more sour with each passing day.

One man that came to apply for a job seemed undistinguished. He

was short, balding, and soft spoken. Al and Sam exchanged looks as he

approached the desk they sat behind. His resume seemed in order, but

experience aside, they needed to find out more.

"My name is Clifford Gooshe. My friends call me Gooshie."

Sam and Al exchanged amused glances. Al leaned on one elbow,

giving the timid looking man one of his icy 'officer' looks. "Dr. Beckett

and I have looked over your resume and it seems in order. Why do you want

to work on this Project?"

"I'm the originator of the supertronic computer. I heard you were

building an organic one here, and decided this was the job for me, even if

it meant working under the Government. See, the Pentagon bought my

invention and left me pretty much out in the cold. I heard you two were

radicals, not ones to give in, and thought that maybe you could let me

program the computer. I'll never be able to get my invention back, but

maybe I can make my mark here."

"You were screwed by the government?" Al asked, eyes cold.

"Yes, sir." Gooshie was trembling, staring down at the floor.

"Hired!" Sam and Al chorused, each grabbing one of the surprised

man's hands and shaking it vigourously.

The computer set-up and building the Accelerator seemed like

unendng projects, much as the Imaging Chamber was. The holographic work

had been completed after months of tests.

Suddenly it seemed, with the exception of a few tests, everything

was in place. Ziggy, named for the cartoon character that always runs into

roadblocks, started making his mark on the world of computerized

intelligence. Sam and Gooshie spent hours feeding it data, and it accepted

it like a hungry baby bird.

"It's all happening so fast, Al." It was the dead of night and the

Project slept. The two men stood on the desert floor, looking at the

completed buildings in amazement. Sam's voice was all gosh, golly, gee

whiz, like the kid Al had met twenty-two years before.

He glanced over at the younger man. Ruthie had been gone for a

year, and there was no one else in the world besides Sam that he had left

to lean on. It had been Sam's turn to hold him while he cried.

"You're ready to leap right now, aren't you, kid?"

"Oh yeah." Sam's face grew serious for a moment. "What if

something goes wrong?"

"'What if' questions again? When, for Christ's sake are you going

to learn to stop asking those things? Every time you do that something

happens?"

"Ruthie's gone, Donna..." He'd tried searching her out after the

wedding that never was, but she'd disappeared. Her mother couldn't or

wouldn't give him any clues. "I'm worried about leaving you alone. If I

go, you'll..."

"I'll be just fine. Anyway, you can't go and just _leap_. There's

tests, and Gooshie says..."

Sam shook his head, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets. "No,

something tells me necessity will precede the tests, the system checks.

Wright, Weitzman they've been breathing down our necks, and you know it.

They want results. Who's to say they don't come in here tomorrow and

demand either we go ahead or they'll dismantle the whole thing, money be

damned." His face set in determined lines. "I can't let them do that,

Al."

"I know, kid, I know." Al felt Sam's arm come across his

shoulders, a solid weight that felt pretty good. "Just hold out a little

while longer, okay? It's not worth risking your life over. Ziggy says we

may not even be able to retrieve you at this point, so don't get any crazy

ideas, okay?"

"I can't make any promises, Al." From the look on Sam's face, the

older man knew it was pointless to argue with him.

The desert night was cut by the faint color of neon, the lights of

Project Quantum Leap. Even the silly art deco sign Al had made,

illuminating the entrance - Chez Leap - gave an aura of unearthly beauty

to the scene. The sky was overhead, a blanket of stars and darkness. The

two men stood together, surveying their work, their labor of love. Another

day was ahead of them.

The beginning...


End file.
